


a small white room

by pyrrhic_victory



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Cultural Differences, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Bottom Elim Garak, Cardassian Anatomy, Cardassian Culture, Delusions, Drama, Emotional Sex, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Light Dom/sub, Living Together, M/M, Paranoia, Psychosis, Recovery, Romance, Season/Series 06, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Tags May Change, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 31
Words: 77,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victory/pseuds/pyrrhic_victory
Summary: Mid Season 6, Garak is captured and tortured by the Dominion. With the runabout destroyed, everyone thinks he's dead, and Julian struggles to grieve someone he couldn't admit to being in love with until it was too late.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 608
Kudos: 298





	1. From the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> this is a heavy one! i love torture and recovery fics, so i thought i'd write one to put all my favourite self-indulgent tropes into. (i'm still working on my dangerous sentiments series, just finding the motivation to put all the pieces of the next part together.) 
> 
> lots of warnings for torture, blood, injury, trauma etc.

It’s cold. 

Garak was trained to become aware of his surroundings the moment he gains consciousness, and the first thing he always realises is that he’s lying on a metal floor, and it’s cold. Painfully so, worse than the station. The cold sticks to his scales like sweat and blood. 

He’s covered with that, too. It stinks, he stinks and it’s awful. It doesn’t help that what passes for a bathroom in this place is a hole in the corner. 

His head pounds, his left eye-ridge aches like it’s been hit. He’s woken up like this enough times to realise that even if he can’t remember, this particular bruised sensation tells him that he has. The forcefield in the doorway makes a constant electrical buzz. He keeps his eyes closed for now, but the brightness burns through his lids anyway. 

Everything hurts. 

His  _ head _ .

The forcefield deactivates and he’s dragged to his feet. The movement nearly makes him sick. By the time he’s blinked the lights out of his eyes, he’s halfway down an equally offensively bright corridor with a Jem’Hadar soldier on either side of him. He’s long since memorised the route and the number of rooms he passes, all identical. 

Not rooms. Cells. 

Then the chair in the interrogation room. 

Until now, his least favourite chair has been the one they used in the Obsidian Order to test his resistance to interrogation. But at least in that one he was allowed the dignity of clothing. This chair surpassed that one quite rapidly. He loathes it, which is only a slightly more unhelpful emotion than loathing the Jem’Hadar, the Vorta, the Founders and the Dominion as a whole. 

Strapped down. Trapped. Confined. 

The Vorta - he thinks she’s called Korva, though his mind is full of other thoughts like how much his head hurts and whether this is ever going to stop - stands opposite, while the two soldiers strap him in and leave. One stands at the door outside, the other walks to the end of the corridor. He knows this because he’s peered through the slits in the door of his cell and seen what happens to the others. 

He imagines that, now. Watching the Jem’Hadar walk past. He follows the soldier, imagines himself outside of his body, walking nowhere in particular. Perhaps he’s on the station, perhaps the desert on Cardassia. 

“Mr Garak. Terribly sorry about what happened the last time we talked,” Korva says, smiling sympathetically. “Sometimes diplomatic tensions run a little high between Cardassia and the Jem’Hadar, and the soldiers get a little overexcited.” 

That explains the terrible ache in his head, then. 

“Oh, I understand completely. There’s nothing to apologise for,” he grinds out, forcing a smile in return. It keeps him sane, doing that. Pretending this is all perfectly amicable. Everything else about this is designed to do him the opposite; and he knows, he knows it so well. He used to do the same thing. 

The bright lights. 

The cold. 

Starvation, dehydration.

Leaving him naked.

They even interrupt his sleep, only letting him get one or two hours before dragging him back to the damned chair. The Vorta is only there half the time, but Jem’Hadar don’t sleep, so neither does he. The pain is almost secondary, though it doesn’t feel that way when electricity shoots through his system and he forgets how to think. 

“Now. Where were we?” Korva swipes through a tablet. The air of nonchalance, as though she’s got all the time in the world - it’s all familiar. If he wasn’t in so much pain he’d be bored. There is only this. Just pain. 

She asks about the station, about the layout and the security systems and the wormhole and the staff. She asks about what he does for Starfleet. She asks what the Federation knows about the Dominion’s plans. Either he comes up with something witty to entertain himself or he lies. Sometimes, though, they turn electricity up so high that he screams until his throat turns raw. 

He was trained to endure this, and he survives by removing himself from his body. 

He imagines he is somewhere else. The station. Cardassia. The basement of the house where he grew up. Even the gardens of the embassy on Romulus, if he gets desperate. Anywhere but here. 

Perhaps it’s not good for him, to be electrocuted so many times. It’s got to be causing some kind of damage to his nervous system, if not his brain. That would be a relief. To become numb enough that this didn’t matter anymore. Korva seems to have thought of that too, and now there are rough hands around his arms, throwing him to the floor, and he’s quite tempted to be sick but there’s nothing in his stomach so all he can do is retch while the Jem’Hadar’s boot rams into him over and over. 

He doesn’t tell her anything. 

She’s growing tired of waiting for him to break down. That’s what it’s all about in the beginning, with the ones who aren’t afraid of pain, the ones who talk back when they’re hit, the ones who start laughing when pushed too far - it’s about patience. Pushing and pushing. Waiting for them to break apart. Garak remembers interrogating them far more vividly than the cowards who begged and pleaded and confessed on the spot. 

He always thought he’d be one of the cowards. 

He tried to be, of course. But they weren’t interested in the skills he offered, just the knowledge he wouldn’t. And if he’s honest with himself, he didn’t try his hardest to give in. He doesn’t want to help the Dominion. He cannot serve the Cardassia that submitted to oppression. 

The Cardassia that killed Ziyal. 

So when he breaks - and he will, he knows it, he can feel it happening, his mind cracking at the places where it has been broken and mended before - when he breaks, he will break silently. 

And then he will die. Not today, and not tomorrow. Maybe not even for a month. He’s too valuable to kill yet. He knows too much. But one day, one day soon, his mind will break and he’ll cease to be useful. And if he hasn’t found a way out of here before that, he will almost certainly be killed. 

He’s tried everything he can think of. He’s memorised schedules and patterns and layouts as well as he can, but there’s only so much a naked man covered in bruises can do against armed guards in the centre of a heavily guarded Dominion facility. So he escapes another way. He imagines himself out of his body and into a memory, anything vivid enough to distract him from the striking of the whip.

(The Vorta prefers the detachment of devices that cause pain from a distance so she doesn’t have to get her hands dirty. The Jem’Hadar thrive on bloodshed.) 

And when he can’t do that, when memory slips away in the face of pain, he imagines the pain means something else. The Jem’Hadar become Bajorans taking revenge on the Cardassian, they become Cardassian soldiers taunting the exile, they become the Tal Shiar interrogating the Obsidian Order spy. They become his father, punishing his bastard son. 

That memory burns the most. 

They drag him back to his cell, to the cold metal floor and the smell. 

Before all this happened, there was a garbled Cardassian transmission close to the border that sounded like it came from a small satellite. A routine investigation. He’d been requested to go as the resident expert on all things Cardassian, especially coded transmissions. The trip was so mundane that none of the senior staff even went with him, just a Starfleet operations officer he hadn’t met before. 

Lt. Heret Mara. Young. And Bajoran, significantly, though she didn’t seem uncomfortable with Garak. He hasn’t seen her since it happened. 

A Jem’Hadar ship on the radar, and then there’s a gap in his memory. Probably at the moment he was hit rather rudely in the face, and probably not by Heret, though he can’t rule it out. He doesn’t know what happened to her. 

He imagines himself back on the station so he doesn’t have to think about it. And when he imagines himself there, he imagines himself at lunch with Dr Bashir. 

“I’m sorry, Garak, I just couldn’t get to the end of  _ The Legate’s Duty.” _

“Whyever not? Were you otherwise engaged?” 

“The whole thing made no sense, and it was so terminally boring I thought another dose of it might be fatal.” 

Garak plays up an affectation of being insulted on behalf of his literature, and Bashir smiles crookedly, charming only because he doesn’t know he’s flirting, doesn’t know that if he were Cardassian, what they’ve been doing borders on courting. What they used to do, anyway. They haven’t so much as had lunch in months. The doctor is always busy with his work or in his holosuite programs with Chief O’Brien, and Garak is always busy decrypting Cardassian transmissions or working in his shop. 

But since this is his imagination, he has free licence to imagine what he likes. It’s sad, yes, but frankly, he thinks he’s earned the right to be pathetic. He can reach across the table and close his hand over Bashir’s where it rests around his mug of tea. 

“Patience is the key to Cardassian literature, my dear doctor. If you had reached the end, you would have found that the less obvious elements of the narrative were not nonsensical at all, and discovering the manner in which they fit together is what makes the exercise worthwhile.” 

“Right. And I suppose you won’t tell me why the legate spent three pages going on about the flowers on the table at his father’s kanar distillery, will you?” 

“Patience.” 

Patience is the excuse he uses for why he hasn’t made a move. When it comes to Bashir - and Garak’s embarrassing thoughts about touching his hand and sharing meals apart from lunch - patience is another word for cowardice. He’s not a fool. Patience is the lie he tells himself when he doesn’t want to admit that it isn’t possible. It never has been. But the floor is cold, hard metal and he doesn’t feel much like the truth at the moment. 

He might even get some sleep if he imagines being warm thoroughly enough to make himself believe it, if he imagines the station hard enough that he can pretend he’s just lying on his bathroom floor after drinking too much. And maybe Bashir will come and pick him up, clean up his mess for him, give him some drug or another to make the hangover go away. 

Bashir is the only one he trusts to see him like this, with blood in his hair, blood all over him. He can feel it beginning to dry around the lashes. The whip must have torn out some of the scales on his back.

He imagines a warm hand pressed against his temple. 

“I’ve got a medical emergency, two to beam to the infirmary.” 

“Why can’t we stay right here, doctor?” 

“Don’t be silly, Garak. You need medical attention.” 

“Well, I won’t deny I need attention. Whether that stays strictly medical is up to you, my dear.” 

Bashir sighs. There’s a warm hand in his hair, brushing it back from his face, and keeps his eyes closed in the hopes that the illusion will last longer. 

He’s so _ tired.  _

If he could just get a little warmer… 

A noise pulls him out of it. 

_ Clunk, clunk, clunk _ in the ceiling and then deafening, freezing water drops from above. He covers his head and his back screams at first but the water numbs it after a while. 

It’s cold. His head pounds. Everything hurts. 

The bright lights burn his eyes even when he squeezes them shut and hides his face in his arms. 

They don’t leave him to shiver for long. Back down the corridor, into the room with the chair and the electricity. Thrown onto the floor once the Vorta leaves and the Jem’Hadar get a chance to have their go at him. They tire of fighting a man that can’t fight back, and he’s back in the cell. 

It’s cold and bright. 

Everything hurts. 

Bashir lectures him about the value of Shakespeare for the dozenth time and he listens because there’s nothing quite like the look he gets in his eyes when he’s off one of his impassioned expositions.

The chair. 

Electricity. 

The floor. 

The cell. 

Cold. 

Bright.

Hurting. 

He takes Bashir to look at the Cardassian sky and teaches him their constellations, and they somehow get into an argument about autocracy. 

The chair. 

Electricity. 

The floor. 

The Jem’Hadar kicks him hard enough that something cracks in his chest and a fresh wave of sharper, hotter pain spikes through the dull throb that usually comes from being struck. 

He tries to cough and it burns, like there’s something boiling in his lungs and he can’t breathe.

There’s something on his chest,

crushing,

suffocating.

He can’t breathe. 

Not this, not now, he  _ can’t- _

He’s kept this neurosis at bay in his cell, for the most part (panic attacks don’t count if no-one can see them happening) but now his eyes are shut in case the soldier’s boot comes near his face and his ribs are screaming and he can’t breathe. 

Everything happens at once. 

The walls crush him and the closet door shuts on him and Enabran’s foot rams into his stomach over and over because he’s not good enough, he’s wrong, he’s too slow, too stupid, too loud, and it hurts and he can’t  _ breathe _ . 

It’s too bright in here, like it’s burning. 

Exploding. 

The building is falling. 

“I can’t-” he doesn’t know why he says it, like Enabran has ever cared what he can or can’t do. He hates when Elim complains. 

“That’s enough,” comes his mother’s voice through the falling rubble and he gasps and chokes on the cold floor. “I said, enough! Don’t kill him before he talks.”

The boot stops, scuffs the floor in front of his face. Garak manages a few breaths uninterrupted, and tries to acclimatise to the searing pain. It’s not the first time he’s felt it, nor will it be the last, but it feels like there’s something crushing him and it takes every last dreg of his drained willpower to force back the nauseating panic in his throat. 

“There, there.” A hand touches his face, wipes away the tears trailing down his cheek. He sees black hair through the blur.

“Mother…?” 

“I think we’re getting somewhere.” The voice drifts further away. 

“Wait!”

“Get him up.”

The cracked rib burns a new hole through the pain when they drag him back up into the chair, blindingly hot so he can’t see much through his blurred eyes. Just the soldier, the Vorta and a strange blur in the corner that wasn’t there before. 

“Now, Mr Garak. From the beginning. What is it you do for Starfleet?” 

He closes his eyes.

There is no escape, not even in madness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading the first chapter! it is quite depressing at the moment, but it gets better! let me know what u think, if there's any tags i missed etc. i have quite a bit written already, it's just a matter of editing it...
> 
> send me a message on tumblr if u like, im pyrrhic-victory there too!


	2. Ghosts from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of Julian's POV this chapter.

Julian Bashir has a habit of underperforming. Coming second, coming too late. And on his worst days, not showing up at all. 

Dax was one example. 

Garak is another. 

Nine days after his runabout was destroyed, Julian, standing blankly in Garak’s deserted quarters, realises that the horrible crawling sensation in his gut is not only grief but a message:  _ you’re too late.  _

It wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened at the time. There had been a garbled Cardassian transmission near the border. Garak had accompanied a new posting, officer Lieutenant Heret, on a routine intelligence-gathering mission when communication was lost. Scouts found the wreckage of the runabout six hours later, as well as trace evidence in the surrounding space that Jem’Hadar fighters had been present around the same time. 

And now Garak is dead, and Julian is left here, standing in his quarters, wondering how on Earth he’s supposed to feel about packing all of this into boxes and putting it away in storage. The task fell to him because he’s supposed to be the one who knew Garak best. It still feels like a huge violation, like he’s cheating somehow by pulling back the curtain and looking at everything he left behind. 

Padds on the desk, orders from the shop and codes he was partway through decrypting, letters Julian doesn’t read. It’s been years, he realises. The place is messier than he remembers.

The only thing in Garak’s quarters with any kind of life are the plants. Vibrant green leaves without spots or holes. Pure white flowers. Ramrod straight reeds. There are at least ten pots scattered around, each with a different watering can or mister beside it, each with visibly different kinds of soil. 

Julian always assumed his gardening story was a joke of sorts, but these plants are well cared-for, even loved. He brushes a waxy green leaf thoughtfully, then picks up the smallest pot from the desk, with dark, rich soil that holds a smattering of little white flowers. The edges of the petals are beginning to curl and turn brown, perhaps from a lack of water. 

“Do you miss him too?” Julian asks, turning the plant in his hands. 

The plant, predictably, says nothing, but he can’t help but see the wilting leaves as a sign of longing for their proper caretaker. 

He doesn’t even know what kind of plant this is. Garak would probably prefer Keiko to look after them. They were quite friendly, and botany isn’t one of the topics on which Julian’s memorised a wealth of knowledge. 

He leaves everything else as it was and goes back to the infirmary. 

“New patient?” Dax smiles at him when he arrives. She’s working on a project with him. He realises he’s still holding the plant. 

“Yes, I suppose so. Just holding onto him.” 

“Him?” 

“It. Her, I suppose flowers usually are, aren’t they?”

“Not in Trill culture,” she shrugs. “We don’t tend to divide things into genders when they don’t need them. Whose is it?”

“Oh, um.” He’s supposed to be giving it to Keiko, but he passed the O’Briens’ quarters on the way here without even noticing. “I don’t know yet. It’s from Garak’s quarters.” 

“Oh.” Her expression softens. “How are you holding up?” she quietly asks.

“Me? I’m fine. It’s not like we were that close in the end. This old thing, though, I think it needs a bit of treatment.” He holds up the plant. 

“He was your friend. You’re allowed to be upset.”

“Well, I’m not. And I’ve got plenty to be getting on with, so I think I’ll just, um, be getting on with it.” 

He doesn’t like talking about what happened. 

He’s supposed to be processing his grief or some such thing. That’s what people do. It’s a normal part of healing and growth and moving on and whatever bloody thing he’s read in a dozen books he memorised five years ago about helping the families of patients grieve. 

And if Julian doesn’t mourn him, who will? 

Ziyal is dead. Tain is dead. He doesn’t know anything else about Garak’s family, if he even has any. Now Julian actually thinks about it, Odo is the only other person on the station who might actually be considered Garak’s friend. Which means Julian-

Julian was his closest friend. 

And he can’t even admit to liking him most days, let alone missing him. 

But the thing is, he doesn’t feel like he even has the right to grieve, not when he’s been drifting apart from Garak for so long. He’s been avoiding Garak for months. Ever since they took back the station from the Dominion, Julian has been pulling away. But even before that, there was always something about Garak that set off a strange feeling in him that he couldn’t identify, deep and frightening and uncomfortable. 

Why was it uncomfortable? 

And why is it a thousand times worse now than before? 

Whatever he’s doing now, when he puts the flowerpot on the edge of the desk and identifies it through the computer instead of asking Keiko, it isn’t grieving or moving on or whatever it is he’s supposed to be doing. He’s doing the only thing he really knows how to do: treating a condition. 

It’s a kind of Cardassian daisy, as far as he can tell, and the computer tells him it’s highly toxic. 

“Maybe your biggest secret was how bloody predictable you were, beneath it all,” Julian murmurs. He takes the flower back to his quarters at the end of the day, waters it carefully, and after a bit of deliberation, puts it on the bedside table. He falls asleep counting the petals.

***

There’s a blur in the corner of the cell. Garak knows without being able to see properly, the way one just  _ knows  _ things in dreams, that the blur will clarify into the shape of his father. Tain has never been a comforting presence at the best of times, and less so now he's dead and haunting Garak in a torture chamber. 

Strapped down again. 

Burning. 

His wrists have raw welts carved into them where they keep rubbing against the restraints. 

Electricity, sparks that flash in his vision. 

“Now, I’ll ask you again. What exactly do you do for Starfleet?” 

The ghost of Tain watches him over Korva’s shoulder. 

Burning in his chest. Every breath hurts. 

The Dominion controls Cardassia. 

Cardassia killed Ziyal. 

“I mend their uniforms, of course.” 

They take him back to the cell and Tain stands in the corner. Garak folds himself up in the opposite one. 

Every time Garak closes his eyes and hopes the spectre will go away, it doesn’t. Imagining himself away from the pain doesn’t help when his imagination takes him straight back to the figure in the corner of the cell, watching him. His imagination takes him to the office in his house, or the one in the Obsidian Order headquarters. It takes him to the Romulan warbird where Tain touched him last. 

Garak tries to send his thoughts back to Bashir, but memories are stronger than fantasy and all he can see is Tain’s deathbed in another Dominion prison, with the doctor silent behind him. 

“That’s why the good doctor avoids you, you know. He knows how you feel about him. Or rather, how you could feel, if he allowed it.” 

Garak tries to shut him out. The aura of unspoken potential between himself and Bashir has long since become old and uncomfortable for them both. The man doesn’t want him and likely never could, even if Garak didn’t have such a dark past. Garak doesn’t dare push it. He lets the implications remain implications, the subtext remain subtext. He stays patient. 

“Patience is another word for cowardice,” Tain unhelpfully reminds him.

“Be quiet,” Garak hisses. He can’t rest against the wall because the wounds on his back haven’t healed properly. They’ll get infected if he’s not careful. 

“You won’t live long enough for that to be a problem.” Tain’s voice is exactly as he remembers it, calm and low. 

“Stop it!” 

Garak hides his eyes like he did when he was a child in the dark of a closet, seeking comfort in voluntary blindness. Maybe if he pretends Tain isn’t there aggressively enough, he’ll go away.

“Hello?” 

The voice is muffled and a little uncertain, and most importantly, it is not Enabran Tain’s. He looks through the forcefield to his left and sees a figure in a dirty, torn Starfleet uniform, crouching on the floor in the cell opposite his. 

“Lieutenant Heret?” 

The young Bajoran woman smiles awkwardly. Her face is a little grimy, her lip split, her throat decorated with bruises. But, all things considered, she looks considerably better than Garak assumes  _ he  _ looks. Especially considering that they haven’t taken her clothes yet. He makes doubly certain to cover himself from that angle; not that anyone would be able to see much of him through the blood at present. 

“Garak, isn’t it? Prophets, what- are you alright?” 

“Yes. Well, I expect I’ve looked better.” 

He hears a laugh from the corner of his cell. Tain smiles at him. Garak does not smile back. 

“What about you?” He asks Heret. “Where have they been keeping you? I thought-” 

He thought she was dead. That cell has been empty until now. She shrugs, and sits down so she’s parallel to him, leaning against the wall of her cell. 

“This place is a maze,” she says, her voice still distorted by the forcefield. “It’s almost like they don’t want anyone to leave.” 

She’s smiling faintly, putting on a brave face. He does the same. It feels strange to talk about his situation, to address it head-on. For what feels like weeks, he has done everything in his power to escape it, to imagine himself away. But he can’t do that now, with Heret there, hugging her own arms in the cell opposite. 

His chest burns. They must have cracked a rib.

“You’d think they’d improve the food if they wanted their guests to feel at home,” he remarks. 

“Maybe they should invest in some more comfortable mattresses.”

“I shan’t be leaving a positive review of their sleeping arrangements.” 

She snorts. Part of him rankles at being seen like this, especially by a Bajoran, but she’s said nothing of their history, and he’s glad to have something else to distract him. Anything but the same white walls of his cell and the lurking ghost of Enabran Tain in the corner. 

“What are they going to do to me?” She asks. 

He sighs.

So much for distraction. 

“You’re here because they believe you have information that is valuable to them. If you tell them everything they want to hear, I expect they’ll transfer you back to a less hands-on part of the facility.” 

“Right.” She doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t believe himself. “And if I don’t?”

These Starfleet types. So defiant. Their little warship was named well. 

“It’s best not to dwell on such things,” he hedges. 

She sighs. “I should know better than to ask for a straight answer from a Cardassian.” He looks over at her and she’s just smiling faintly, not bitter, just tired. “They say there’s nothing more terrifying than the unknown. So tell me, and maybe I’ll be a little less terrified.” 

She wears her fear like armour. 

He doesn’t want to tell her about the chair. The anticipation is making it worse. The routine. He doesn’t want to acknowledge that it exists, he doesn’t want to acknowledge the pain in his chest. He keeps trying to imagine himself out, and he can’t with Heret asking him these questions. 

“Don’t be a coward,” Tain reprimands from the corner. He’s sitting behind his desk, which Garak tries not to think too hard about, since it probably shouldn’t be here in this Dominion prison. 

“Knowing what’s coming won’t lessen the pain,” he eventually says. “Believe me, I’m quite familiar with these sorts of proceedings.” 

Heret’s expression shifts minutely. “Does that make it easier?” She asks. 

“I suppose. We were trained rigorously.”

He’s very tired, and though Heret is distracting him from the pain in his chest, talking about this isn’t distracting him from the grim reality of his situation. Perhaps there might be some way he could use her to escape. Perhaps they might both get out of this, though he doubts it. Optimism has never been his strong suit. 

“That’s not what I meant. I meant, does it make it easier to cope with this, knowing that you deserve it?” Heret says. Her voice is level, her gaze never wavers. 

Garak inclines his head. He’s never thought about it like that before. The irony isn’t lost on him, of course. The interrogator, turned prisoner - he’s been on both ends of this sort of thing more times than he’d like over the course of his career as an intelligence agent.

But if he thinks about the things he’s done that keep him awake at night, the people he’s killed whose faces never quite left his mind, the people he interrogated who’d done nothing more serious than be in the wrong place at the wrong time...if he thinks of this not as an injustice, but a fair punishment for the things he’s done in service of a corrupt ideology, the situation doesn’t seem quite so bleak, somehow. It feels like it means something, in a way the universe rarely seems to mean anything anymore.

“You know, I think it does,” he murmurs, then feels himself laugh. “Thank you.” 

She scoffs at that, a little dash of bitterness coming in behind her expression. He doesn’t blame her. He’s beginning to understand the rage of the Bajorans. The reality of the Occupation had been a vague notion before, something simultaneously too great and too small to devote his attention to. But as the years pass he finds himself ruminating on it more and more. 

Sometimes he sees the Bajoran children that the military brought his team to interrogate about the resistance movement. He catches them only in flashes, standing behind the Jem'Hadar when they electrocute him. They don't speak. They just watch. 

The fact that he couldn’t go through with interrogating them is meaningless in the grand scheme of things. For being a part of that, for being someone who so very easily _could_ have done it, he deserves far worse than a broken rib and a cracked mind. Perhaps the universe is finally balancing its books. 

“It’s true, then. What people say about you.” To her credit, Heret hasn’t started insulting him yet. She just seems curious. 

“That rather depends on what people say about me.” He’s pushing his luck; the flat look she gives him tells him that. 

Heret wipes a dribble of blood from her temple. 

“My father died in a labour camp during the Occupation,” she says, quite simply. 

“What a coincidence. Mine died in a Dominion prison. Irony abounds.”

She snorts at that. 

Boots stamp in the corridor. The Jem’Hadar are back, and they drag her to her feet. 

“Where are you taking me?” She demands, but they don’t answer. Then she looks at him desperately as they pull her past his cell. “Hey! Where are they taking me?” 

He can’t tell her about the chair.

She disappears from the equation as quickly as she appeared, and once again, he's alone with the ghosts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're still on the hurt right now, but the comfort is coming soon, i promise!


	3. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the comfort is on the way at last!

“Doctor, I realise the difficulty of the situation, but there is a new consignment of Starfleet officers arriving in a week’s time and we don’t have living arrangements for one of them.” 

Julian realises what Odo is saying from the awkwardness of his posture. 

“If you’d rather have someone else deal with Garak’s quarters, that can be arranged.” 

“No, no. I’ll do it," Julian quickly says. 

He thinks, despite all the conflicting emotions that have gone on between them in the past, he owes Garak this much. So many times, the tailor dangled his past in front of Julian to entice him in and then backed away at the last minute. 

Or was it Julian who backed away? 

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for when he starts packing things into boxes. There’s nothing that screams ‘secret spy information here’. Just a lot of padds and sewing and engineering tools. He finds a hidden drawer in the desk with a disruptor, a phaser and a very unpleasant-looking knife inside, and another in the bedside table with another disruptor and another knife. 

“Paranoid, were we?” Julian smiles, and puts those items aside to take back to his quarters instead of consigning them to storage. They might be useful later. 

He also keeps a large collection of Garak’s books, stored on isolinear rods and padds in an unexpectedly disorganised fashion around his quarters. The padd next to the bed holds _The Never-Ending Sacrifice,_ open at page 142. 

He doesn’t mean to adopt all of Garak’s plants. It just sort of happens. At first, he wanted to give them to Keiko, but he catches Miles complaining about how she was complaining that there wasn’t enough space in their quarters for all Yoshi’s things and decides he couldn’t give them to her after all. 

He identifies them all through the computer, and with a little help from the transporter, beams them into his quarters. The rest of Garak’s things go into boxes, which go either into storage or into his shop. People aren’t keen to open new businesses in the middle of a station in the middle of a war, so there isn’t any demand to have it cleared. 

It’s funny, how everything that happened between them in the past seems to shift in perspective now. 

There was a time when Garak was practically throwing himself at Julian, begging for attention in his roundabout, Cardassian way. Never saying it outright, just barging into holosuite programs and insulting him and paying unnecessary visits to the infirmary. But it fell away in the end, after Ziyal started spending time with him. 

They’ve barely seen each other since the funeral. 

The moment they really started to drift apart wasn’t when Garak tried to kill him on the Founder’s homeworld - that was more of a nail in the coffin of their friendship, so to speak - but when Julian shot Garak in that holosuite programme. There was a moment, there, something uncomfortable and raw he’d always associated with Garak but couldn’t identify. It came up again and again and Julian was always torn between running towards it and running away from it. 

How is he supposed to mourn someone he never had a chance to get close to in the first place?

No, he’s lying to himself. He had plenty of chances he was just too afraid to take them, too unsure of his own feelings and too worried about the consequences for his career. None of it seems to matter now. He’s never been more sure of his feelings and he’s never cared less about his career. 

As usual, he’s too late. 

***

It’s cold and bright. Everything hurts. 

Garak closes his eyes and opens them again, and Tain is still watching him, straightening a stack of tablets on his desk. He’s been patiently doing paperwork for the past six days. 

“What do you want?” Garak asks. 

“You betrayed your own people for the Federation, and this is how they thank you. Your Starfleet friends have left you to die.” Tain speaks like he’s building up to an interrogation. It’s the same way he used to speak to Garak when he called him into his office to tell him he’d done something wrong. 

Garak snorts. He’s no friend of the Federation and his hallucination ought to know it. They did imprison him for six months. Incarceration has become an occupational hazard at this point. 

“Cardassia betrayed itself when it submitted to the Dominion.”

“What happened to the Elim Garak who worked to destroy his enemies from the inside? Who would have done anything to save his own skin, to hell with anyone else, to hell with Cardassia?” Tain asks. 

“Everything I have ever done has been for Cardassia!”

“Oh, _please_. You expect me of all people to believe that? After what you did?” 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than sit here criticising me?” Garak groans. Imagining himself into the past has backfired, and now the past is steadfastly refusing to bugger off again. He closes his eyes and presses the heel of his palm into them, seeking out a tiny drop of darkness. The cell is so bright and cold and his eyes weren’t built for it. Cardassians need heat and darkness. The station has conditioned him to tolerate a certain level of discomfort, but this is well past even that. 

Heret is likely being tortured. He doesn’t think about that, either. He doesn’t want to think at all. 

“I’m disappointed in you, Elim. How long have you been here now, and you still haven’t got these people under your thumb? You’re out of practice.” 

Tain still sits at his desk. Garak can see the office window behind him, and Cardassia beyond that. It’s a dream of some sort, he knows that, but it’s more interesting than the white cell he’s been stuck in for the past few weeks, and he’s curious about the way his mind has broken. 

“What would you do?” 

“Don’t bother with what I would do. What would you do? The _real_ Elim Garak, the man who I trusted to stand by my side over all others, who relished an interrogation. What would he do? Not sit around feeling sorry for himself, I can tell you.” 

Garak sighs. “I’m not so sure there ever has been a real Elim Garak. If you were the real Tain, you’d know that. You invented me. You made me this _thing_.” 

“It’s a shame I’m not alive to see the moment your clever words finally failed you, Garak. You’re a ‘thing’, and it’s all my fault, of course. How predictable.” 

Garak glares at him. He’s never quite been brave enough to glare at the real Tain, but since this one is a figment of his own imagination, he assumes the consequences will be minimal. 

Unfortunately, his imagination doesn’t seem to have imagined that part yet. Tain rises and Garak is grabbed roughly and thrown to the floor. And the worst, most cowardly part of his mind panics. 

He’s about to be put back in the closet. 

So he fights. He didn’t dare fight Tain when he was alive, either, not since he was barely six and he learned the hard way that fighting was more painful than sitting there and taking the beating. He claws at the man until he can scramble back across the floor and it’s not Tain. There’s a Jem’Hadar soldier standing in front of him holding a phaser rifle. 

“On your knees.” 

That’s the moment he knows that he’s lost. Whatever happens after this is irrelevant. His mind has broken and there’s nothing he can do about it except watch the cracks form like fractures spreading through glass. In the past he hadn’t thought that being mad would be such a self-aware experience. But then he hadn’t thought that addiction would be, either, and he lived through that with a full knowledge of what he was doing to himself. 

He doesn’t want to die fighting shadows and talking to himself. The old monster in the corner of his cell was right. The real Elim Garak doesn’t sit and wait for an opportunity to present itself. He creates the opportunity. 

When explosions shake the walls, he’s ready for them. 

***

Intelligence comes in of a high-security Dominion facility close enough to the border that Starfleet considers an attack feasible. Before the _Defiant_ departs, accompanying General Martok’s ship, Julian watches Miles record a new message for Keiko and the children. He’s never done that. What would he say, and to whom? 

It’s chaos when they beam down. Jem’Hadar, flashes of light and phaser fire, bits of the facility falling apart around them. He ducks behind a fallen piece of debris and fires back. The initial attack must have taken out most of the Jem’Hadar; there aren’t many of them left now.

Julian is a good shot. A perfect shot, of course, in the right conditions. He was made that way. Miles isn’t bad either, though he always complains his bad shoulder makes his arm stray to the left. 

Julian peers out when the shooting stops. The Jem’Hadar are dead. 

“The prisoners.” 

Odo and Worf go with him. 

He remembers Internment Camp 371 the same way he remembers everything else: with painful accuracy. This place is almost identical. Grey walls, grime on the floors, specks of dried blood. He glances at the others; the familiarity is clear in the brief look Worf gives him in return. 

The tricorder picks up more life signs as they get closer to the detention level. He feels cold stepping over the bodies of Jem’Hadar soldiers, but the feeling lessens when he looks at the faces of the prisoners that turn to them as they blast through the locking mechanism and the doors open. 

Starfleet officers, most of them. Some Romulan, some Klingon. All scuffed and dirty, and all staring at the three of them. 

“Captain, we’ve got more people down here than we thought,” he comms Sisko. “Forty-seven so far. We’re going to need extra medical assistance.” 

He starts scanning people at random; the ones sitting or lying on the ground first. The same injuries he saw in Internment Camp 371, the result of forced hand-to-hand combat and assault - broken bones and sprains, bruises, blunt force trauma. Malnutrition, dehydration and their associated complications. 

“Doctor.” Worf is looking at his tricorder. “There are more life signs deeper in the facility.” 

Julian checks his own. “What’s down there?” He asks the crowd in general. Most of them have started moving towards the doors in a dazed sort of fashion, as though they don’t really believe they could be free. A Starfleet officer turns with a conflicted look back at a set of doors on the other side of the great warehouse-like room. 

“Nobody knows,” she quietly says. “People go down there and they don’t come back up again.” 

“Not today,” he firmly says, and checks the readings himself. “One Cardassian, four Romulan.”

Worf scoffs. “Perhaps the Jem’Hadar ran at the sign of battle.”

“Or they’ve found a way to disguise their biological signatures,” Odo suggests. “I think I’d better accompany you, doctor.” 

They comm Sisko to let him know where they’re going and pull open the doors. 

Another grimy corridor and a lift that carries them down. When the doors open, they’re staring down two Jem’Hadar rifles, but they’re not being held by Jem’Hadar. It's a pair of Romulans. 

“Starfleet,” the woman on the left says. Both their faces are battered and bruised and they’re draped in little more than cloth rags. The corridor is offensively bright and white. He takes in the bodies of the Jem’Hadar soldiers on the floor. 

“I’m a doctor,” Julian says, hands raised slightly. “We’ve liberated the facility.” 

“We gathered that from the explosions,” the Romulan man dryly says. “There are others who require medical treatment.” 

Julian follows the man down a short hall of empty cells. The floor is spattered with blood and there’s another Jem’Hadar at the end, his throat slit open. 

The room at the end has a thick, heavy door that swings open. He sees what looks like a dentist’s chair. He sees blood and straps and electrodes and promptly looks away in disgust. Opposite the chair are two Romulan men slumped against the wall, one with a rifle. The Cardassian he’d picked up on the scanner is on the floor beside them, motionless except for the shaky movement of his breathing. 

“He is with us,” the first Romulan man says, perhaps unnecessarily, since the Cardassian is covered in blood and bruises, matted hair hanging in front of his face. The worst of his injuries is a phaser wound in his side, oozing blood, but he sees broken bones and bruising and a nasty infection that’s affecting his ability to breathe. 

“Doctor?” 

“That’s right. We’re going to get you out of here.” 

“Hmm.” The man coughs and drops of blood speckle the floor in front of him. “Why can’t we stay right here?”

That _voice_. 

Julian swallows and takes a moment to answer. 

“Because you need medical attention. Bashir to _Defiant-_ ”

“Oh, attention, yes. Whether that stays strictly medical is up to you, my dear.” 

Everything goes still. 

It _can’t_ be. 

Julian looks at the man, really looks at him. The eyes crack open, bruised and reddened as they are, but the irises are bright, cold blue through his black hair, and they find him with the same piercing sharpness they always have. 

“Garak.” 

And there, _there_ is that _feeling_ that sent him running from Garak as often as running to him. That deep, frightening, uncomfortable feeling that he’s never been able to place until this moment: being _seen._ Being seen for exactly who and what he is, by eyes that will not look away until he looks away first. And this time, he doesn’t. 

Something compels him to push back the filthy, matted hair from Garak’s bruised face so he can see those eyes clearly. A tired sigh, and the eyes drift closed again. 

“Julian. I had hoped to see your face again, one last time. It is vastly preferable to his.” 

He doesn’t know what any of that means. Garak’s never used his first name before, he’s never said something so blatantly sentimental to him before. 

_“Garak?”_ Odo incredulously says behind him. 

“Garak, stay with me. _Garak._ ” Julian can’t find anywhere to touch him that isn’t covered in blood or broken or bruised, so he smooths back his hair again. Garak’s eyes open again, watching Julian with something profoundly unreadable behind them. 

Julian breathes a sigh of relief. “That's good, stay with me."

"Will you stay with me?" Garak asks. Julian has never heard him sound like that before, vulnerable and pleading. Garak's hand twitches towards him and Julian gently lays his own hand on top of it.

"Of course. I'll be right here the whole time."

Garak nods and closes his eyes again.

"Bashir to _Defiant_. Medical emergency, two to beam to sickbay.” 

He comes dangerously close to dying. 

Julian goes into a kind of trance where he can’t allow himself to think about who’s on the operating table. He focuses on the injuries he has to fix and tries not to think about how while he’s been watering plants and worrying about whether or not he should be grieving and whether or not he should clear out Garak’s quarters, Garak hasn’t been dead at all. He’s been imprisoned and held so long that some of his injuries have already healed and left messy scars.

There are fractures, sprains, tears in muscles, bruises everywhere, cuts everywhere, infections that fight back against treatment, welts around his wrists, lashes on his back.

Julian has to keep checking in and out on other patients in the sickbay, the two Romulans he found slumped in the room with the chair and other prisoners with severe injuries. 

When they get back to the station he beams Garak straight to the infirmary for monitoring. And by monitoring, he really means pacing around the infirmary dealing with other urgent patients while throwing glances back at the sleeping Cardassian. He’s under heavy sedation, but he’s alive. He’s breathing, right there on the other side of the infirmary, and Julian can’t quite believe it. 

Odo arrives after the chaos has died down. “You’re certain it _is_ Garak?” 

Julian ran the tests himself as soon as he was stable. He’s been replaced himself one too many times not to check. 

“Completely. Not a changeling, not a clone, not a hologram, not a secret twin - though I wouldn’t put that past him,” Julian says. Odo huffs in amusement. He’s watching Garak closely, head slightly tilted. 

“How long will he be unconscious?”

“It’s better to let his body rest and fight off the infection while he’s sleeping. With any luck, he should come around naturally in a day or so.” 

“Perhaps you had better get some rest yourself,” Odo suggests. 

“I’m fine,” Julian says, and realises it’s a lie at about the same time he realises that he’d much rather be sitting down. 

Everything catches up to him at once. 

The assault on the Dominion facility, the prisoners’ grimy faces, the blood on the floor.

_Garak._

They hadn't even been looking for him. If they hadn't found that facility, purely by accident, he'd still be there. 

What are the chances? 

“Perhaps you’re right,” he says, blinking those faces out of his vision. 

He doesn’t sleep. 

His mind lingers in the infirmary, in the machines monitoring Garak’s vitals, in the grey faces of the Dominion’s prisoners. Is that how he looked, when he stumbled across the barracks to see Garak and Worf standing there, in Internment Camp 371? 

After three hours, twenty-six minutes and eleven seconds of tossing and turning in bed, he gives up on the night as a bad job and goes back to the infirmary. 

(He waters each of the plants first.) 

Garak is still asleep, still weak, but stable. Julian occupies himself with some quiet work on the computer and waits for him to wake up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, let me know what u think so far!


	4. Welcome Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garak wakes up.

Garak was trained to become aware of his surroundings the moment he gains consciousness, and the first thing he always realises is he isn’t lying on a metal floor. The room is not as bright and cold as he’s come to expect. 

It takes him only a moment to realise that he isn’t where he was before.

Breathing doesn’t hurt his ribs as badly anymore. They feel like they’ve been bound, everything stiff and numb. Disinfectant overwhelms him, along with the vague smell of old blood that they can never get out of the carpet in the infirmary, only strong enough for a Cardassian to notice. 

“Welcome back.” That soft voice greets him. “How are you feeling?” 

Julian is there, his face slightly more drawn than Garak remembers, shadows under his eyes. But the fondness is the same. 

“Better for seeing you, my dear,” he murmurs. 

He does feel better, in fact. 

He’s on his back and it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should. He stretches out his hand and finds resistance. Bandaging, helping along a feeling of stiffness in the fingers that he’s certain were mangled last time he was cognisant. 

What happened?

The last thing he remembers is slitting the throat of a Jem’Hadar soldier. 

Before that, he remembers talking to the Vorta. Lying, most likely. No, there’s an emotion after that. He recalls being quite irritated about being shot. 

He was shot. 

The feeling isn’t the same as the other times he’s been shot. His side is just as numb as his hand and his ribs, sort of cold and tingling like a regenerator has been run over it. His mind has never been able to make pain vanish like that; that’s why he needed the implant in his head in the first place. 

“What happened?” The question bursts out of him and he tries to sit up and look at Bashir properly, but the doctor keeps him in place.

“Stay still. You need to rest,” tuts Bashir, who might actually be _real._

“What _happened_ , doctor?” 

He needs to know if this is truly happening, and if so, _how._

Bashir looks away. “You were taken prisoner by the Dominion and, um-”

“Interrogated, yes, I do recall that part. How did I get _here?_ ”

He looks around at the infirmary. It’s almost identical to how he remembers it. A few pieces of equipment rearranged, bottles of medicine in the cabinet replaced. That doesn’t tell him much; a simulation or hallucination wouldn’t draw attention to itself in an obvious way. 

“Starfleet stormed the facility yesterday. And from what your Romulan friends told me, you staged your own rather dramatic escape from the inside once we’d knocked the power out.”

That sounds more familiar. 

“I’m sure it was the Romulans that did most of the escaping. Very agreeable people, once you get past their bluntness, their arrogance and their fondness for intolerably drab decor. I spent most of the affair...laying on the floor, I believe.”

“That would be because you were shot.”

“Yes, I rather thought so.”

He lies still for a moment. It feels...fake, somehow. The smell is right, the lights and the walls and the sounds of the equipment and the station humming and Dr Julian Subatoi Bashir, all of it is right. But there’s something off in his mind that’s telling him either he’s hallucinating this, or he hallucinated everything that came before. The line between fantasy and reality can blur so easily now. He’s not sure if this is real or a very elaborate dream. 

Out of desperation for some kind of confirmation, he reaches for Bashir’s arm. It feels the way it always has in those little touches of _hello_ and _goodbye_ and brushing past on the promenade, the scraps of affection he could coax out. The doctor blinks down at him, caught in a rare moment of silence. 

If this is just a fantasy, he’s already too far gone to care. 

He drops his good hand back to the bed, and the moment breaks. 

Bashir clears his throat. He talks about Garak’s injuries and conditions, most of which are not new information. A minor infection that affected the broken bones in his hand, a few broken ribs, the whiplashes and torn muscles. Garak lets the words wash over him in a steady stream of medical jargon that only the real Bashir would be capable of producing. 

“Doctor-” he cuts off Bashir mid-stream about the revolutionary new medical developments in treating infections. “As fascinating as this all is, might I inquire as to the state of things?”

“You’ll need to take it easy for a while, and I mean it,” Bashir sternly says. “Your body’s been through a lot, and you need to rest. But you should be up and about in a couple of days, I should say.” 

“Not me! The war, the Dominion. I haven’t exactly had a news broadcast available to me.”

“You don’t need to worry about all that now, Garak, you’ve only just-”

“Doctor. I am growing quite impatient.” He tries to push himself up again, partly to glare at Bashir and his insufferable consideration and partly so he’ll be forced to touch Garak to keep him on the bed. 

Bashir fusses around correcting the machines that Garak has put off-kilter by trying to get up, then sighs and rattles off the statistics. More battles, more assaults. The numbers are even on both sides. 

His people are dying in a war they will gain nothing from.

Garak closes his eyes. 

“Are you in any pain?” 

“No,” Garak says. It’s only half a lie. “Thank you, doctor. I think I’ll be returning to my quarters now.” 

He tries to push himself up again and doesn’t quite manage it. 

“Steady,” Bashir gently says. His hand is on Garak’s shoulder again, warm and comforting. 

“On second thoughts,” Garak weakly says, “perhaps I’ll remain here for a short time.” 

“I thought you might.” 

The doctor’s smile is so beautiful after weeks of ugly gashes and blinding white walls that Garak is momentarily frozen. Without question, his fantasy pales in comparison to the real thing.

It’s a strange sense of loss he feels when Bashir’s hand leaves his shoulder and he feels sleep dragging him down again. Garak cannot say the things he has been saying to the air in that white cell, or feel the things his mind has allowed him to scrape the surface of. Bashir will not- _cannot_ give Garak those things. 

“I’ll let you get some proper sleep. We can talk later. Computer, lights.” 

The room falls into blissful darkness. For once, he doesn’t have to squint to see properly. 

“Doctor?”

Bashir squeezes his good hand. “I’ll be here. You can rest now.”

He falls asleep wondering if the doctor knows the significance of touching a Cardassian’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short one today, more yearning up ahead!


	5. The Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julian has an *interesting* dream, and Garak is discharged from the infirmary with nowhere to stay.

The room is sweltering, hot and dark.

Julian turns in bed and glimpses silvery grey in the shadows in front of him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, not entirely knowing why. Blue eyes blink at him. 

“Whatever for?” Garak asks. His voice is soft and comforting, embracing Julian from all angles in an almost supernatural way. 

“I don’t know.” 

Garak kisses him, a cold, strange feeling against his lips. 

“What are you doing?” Julian half-heartedly asks as Garak climbs on top of him, kissing his neck, and gently runs his palm down his bare thigh. 

“Accepting your apology,” Garak purrs into his ear. 

Julian wakes covered in sweat, staring at the ceiling, and completely, utterly doomed. 

It’s not like this is an unforeseen development, exactly. He’s always found Garak fascinating, even alluring in his own way. 

_ But I love him _ . The thought quietly bubbles up from the undercurrent of grief and hope and arousal that surrounds him. It had taken losing him to really understand that, but he loves Garak. Of course he does. And he loves him like _ that.  _

He turns his head to look at the Cardassian daisy living on his bedside table and sighs. 

Either he has the best timing in the universe, or the worst. Garak isn’t dead, he’s in the infirmary, breathing, and he’s being less opaque about his affection than he ever has before. 

The soft tone of his voice when he woke up in the infirmary and saw Julian. 

_ How are you feeling?  _

_ Better for seeing you, my dear.  _

The way he grabbed Julian’s arm like a lifeline. 

(In hindsight, perhaps Garak’s previous displays of affection have only been opaque because Julian wanted them to be.) 

But Garak’s in no state to be wrangling with the complex emotions of interspecies relationships in the middle of a war between their peoples, physically or emotionally. Julian can’t foist that on him now, especially not after being willfully blind to Garak’s unsubtle crush on him for so long. What if, after everything, he’s still too late, and Garak doesn’t even want him like that anymore? 

There are few who would want to be close to someone genetically engineered. But surely, after everything they’ve been through, Garak would be one of the few? 

He can’t think about this now. It’s incredibly inappropriate, not to mention inconvenient. So naturally, it’s all he can think about for the entire day. 

“So even though I am releasing you from supervision, I highly recommend that you rest as much as possible in the next couple of weeks,” he says to Garak later that morning, ending a long-winded explanation. “That means no strenuous activity.” 

Garak raises his brows at that, and Julian coughs, looking away. He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. 

“I shall try my best, doctor,” he says, with that ambiguous smile. His bandaged hand rests in his lap. 

“Now, I need to ask you some...other questions, before I release you officially.” 

“Go ahead, doctor.” 

“I need to ask you how you’re feeling. Emotionally, that is.” Julian actually sees the moment Garak’s smile becomes fake. He hasn’t been looking forward to this, because it’s Garak and it’s impossible to get a straight answer out of him, especially about his health-  _ especially  _ his mental health. “Look, you’ve been through something that most people would find incredibly traumatic.” 

“Then it’s fortunate that I am not ‘most people’. I’m perfectly fine.” Garak’s voice is sharp and defensive. 

“No-one would think less of you if you weren’t,” Julian says. 

“How reassuring. Is that everything?”

Julian sighs. He knew that conversation wasn’t going to go anywhere.

“I know Odo will want to speak to you, but I’ll only allow it if you’re feeling up to it. And Sisko will want to ask you about Lieutenant Heret. But all that can wait until-”

“Heret?” Garak cuts in. “Is she alright?”

“There’s been no sign of her.”

“Are you certain? I spoke to her a week ago. Or perhaps a little longer. It was difficult to keep track of the days.” 

“She was there with you?”

“In the cell opposite mine. I’m certain of it.” 

Julian nods cautiously. “We downloaded what was left of the files on their computer system. About half of them were unrecoverable, but Chief O’Brien is working on decrypting the rest. If she’s in the system, we’ll find her.” 

“She was there,” Garak firmly says. 

“I’ll make sure to tell Miles.”

Garak smiles tightly and drops his gaze into his lap, picking at the edge of the bandage around his fingers. It lies unspoken between them that if they didn’t find Heret alive when they attacked the Dominion facility, they probably weren’t going to find her at all. Julian wonders if Cardassians experience survivor’s guilt, and if they do, if Garak would be one of them. 

“Are we done here, doctor?” he asks. 

“Yes, that’s about it.” 

“Except that I assume my quarters have been reassigned.” Garak’s expression is amiable, but carefully guarded. Whatever vulnerability he’d let out while he was half-unconscious has been hidden away again. Julian restrains a curse. He had forgotten that was going to be a problem. 

“Yes. I’m sorry, there was a new consignment of officers and nowhere to put them, so…”

“I see. And my shop?” 

“Most of your clothes and things are in there. The rest is in storage.” 

“But there aren’t any living quarters available.”

“Not at the moment. I’m sure we could move some people around, and there’s always space on the  _ Defiant _ …” 

“Yes. I’m sure I’ll survive.” 

He can tell from the brief grimace on Garak’s face that he doesn’t want to spend any more time in a tiny bunk on the  _ Defiant  _ than he has to - they ended up sharing a cabin on the ship quite often when the Dominion took over DS9, and it was obvious just from looking at him in the later weeks that his claustrophobia was affecting him deeply. He only returned to the cabin to sleep, and even then only seemed to sleep a few hours at a time before wandering out to the bridge or the mess hall. 

The  _ Defiant  _ is out, then. Julian can see the cogs turning in Garak’s head; his uncertainty, and his stubborn refusal to admit that uncertainty. 

Julian takes a breath. “You can stay with me, if you like.” He tries to make it sound casual, rather than like he’s hopeful and terrified at the same time, because cohabiting with the man he’s just realised he's painfully in love with is as hopeful as it is terrifying. 

Garak tilts his head, eyes widening, staring at Julian. 

“Are you anticipating a sudden deterioration in my condition that would require the immediate presence of a doctor?” 

“No, nothing like that. Assuming you won’t want to stay on the  _ Defiant _ , and that your shop doesn’t have a bed or a bathroom, it’s the best option I can think of. Medically speaking. Assuming you also won’t want to be staying here.” 

Garak grimaces. “Hospital decor has never put me in a recuperative mood.” He’s still looking at Julian with that confused expression, like he can’t imagine he’s genuinely making the offer. 

“You’ve only mentioned it a thousand times. So?”

Garak seems to be measuring his words carefully. 

“If my presence would truly be no bother to you, then of course I’d appreciate a short stay, doctor. Thank you.” 

Julian tries not to smile too widely. As if Garak has ever actually cared whether his presence is a bother or not. 

“I’ve just got some hypos for you to take for the next few days, and then we can move some of your things into my quarters. Temporarily, of course, while we try and find somewhere else for you to go.” 

“Of course,” Garak inclines his head. 

Julian realises too late that he’s made an arse of himself by repeating that the move is temporary, and probably looks like he doesn’t want Garak to get too comfortable living with him. Which is - now he actually imagines it - the opposite of the truth. But since he’s having a very Garak-themed emotional crisis at the moment, it might be difficult to sort through his own feelings with the man at the epicentre of them sitting on his sofa reading his insufferably dull Cardassian literature. 

“Might I possibly trouble you for something else to wear?” Garak asks, looking pained. He’s often expressed his dislike for the hospital gowns on DS9. “Because if you intend for me to parade across the station in this attire…” 

“Oh! Of course. Let me just…” Julian leaps across to the replicator and Garak cringes at that, too. Julian notices his expression and smiles again, the sort of smile where he doesn’t want to look like he’s laughing at Garak, but he sort of is. “Don’t tell me: you have a bone to pick with replicated clothes.” 

Garak rolls his eyes. “Clothing is an art form, doctor. Replicated clothes are no better than replicated paintings. There’s no soul to them, no craftsmanship.” 

God, he missed how fussy Garak could be. 

“That may be, but they do get the job done. Assuming you wouldn’t rather be naked, I’m sure you can live with the replicator’s soulless craftsmanship for the five minutes it takes to pick up some of your clothes from your shop and take them back to my quarters.” 

Garak sighs and looks immensely put-upon when Julian hands him a bundle of clothing from the replicator. He leaves him to change behind a screen, and tries not to think about the fact that Garak is naked mere feet away, and not covered in blood this time. 

“Be careful not to strain your ribs, by the way.” 

He hears Garak hiss a second later. 

“I’ll do my best,” comes his pained voice. 

“Are you alright?”

“Wonderful. Though I can only hope none of my customers see me in this state,” comes Garak’s tired voice, and then he steps out again, smoothing down his shirt with a look of distaste. “It’s terribly bad for business for people to see their tailor dressed so poorly.”

“That’s another thing I don’t want you worrying about,” Julian warns him. “You’re not to do any unnecessary work while you’re recovering. It’ll only strain your hand.” 

Several of the bones in Garak’s hand had been shattered when they found him. Crushed, like someone had stamped on his fingers. It took a lot of precise work to put them back together, and it will probably be even harder work to keep him from injuring himself again. 

“What do you mean by unnecessary? I need to sew to earn a living, and it is necessary for me to earn a living, is it not?” Garak asks. 

“Not while you’re staying with me, no,” Julian says. 

“I couldn’t possibly impose on you so heavily-” 

“Garak, stop.” 

Uncharacteristically, he does, blinking that wide-eyed blue stare at Julian. He looks more himself now, with actual clothes on and his hair pushed back into place, but the familiarity makes the differences stand out: the small scars, the bandage around his hand, the unhealthy thinness in his face. 

“You’re my patient, and more than that, you’re my  _ friend _ ,” Julian firmly says. “I want to help. And unless you want to spend the next few days arguing instead of recovering, you’re going to let me.” 

Garak tilts his head and puts on an innocent expression. 

“My dear doctor, I wouldn’t dream of antagonising you so.” 

Julian smiles an familiar, tolerant smile that he realises he’s reserved for Garak alone. It's going to be an interesting few days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading so far! all this pining will be resolved in the end, i promise, it'll just take them a while to get there...


	6. Monster in the Mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys move in together. cw for some internalised / referenced homophobia in this bit.

The doctor insists that Garak shouldn’t be allowed to carry any of his own things. A somewhat confused Chief O’Brien is called to assist by beaming over two boxes of hastily thrown-together clothes and toiletries. As they walk back to the Habitat Ring, the station hums in a familiar way that he’d never thought he’d miss. 

The doctor wrings his hands when they stop in front of his quarters, hesitant to go in for some reason. 

“So, um. There were some things of yours I kept. You can have them back now, obviously, I just didn’t think you’d mind, being, um, dead and everything.”

Bashir was the one who went through his things? Why didn’t he say?

“I see. Well, I trust you’ve taken good care of them, whatever they may be.” 

“I tried. I’m no gardener, obviously, but I did as much research as I could, and…”

When the doors open, Garak is met with flashes of green from every angle. 

“Are those...?” He dumbly says, staring at them. He assumed his plants were destroyed or moved elsewhere, but here they all are, in Julian Bashir’s quarters, and as he steps from one to another he realises that they’re thriving. A few drooping petals and leaves here and there, but for someone who claims not to know what he’s doing, they’re very well-preserved.

“I hope they’re alright. I’m more used to patients who can tell me what’s wrong with them.” 

Bashir looks embarrassed, arms folded, chewing on his lip. 

“You’ve taken remarkably good care of them,” Garak barely manages to say. 

“Well, I hope so. I expect they’ll be glad to have their proper caretaker back.” 

He wants to ask why they’re all in Bashir’s quarters. It’s the obvious question.  _ What does it mean? _

Bashir avoids his curious gaze and he feels a strange skin-crawling sensation. 

“I’d like to shower, if that’s alright?” Garak says. 

“Of course, just be careful of your hand. It’s alright to get the bandage wet, I can replace it afterwards. Just don’t bend your fingers or put any pressure on them.” 

“Understood.” 

“In the meantime I’ll make some space for your things.” 

Garak bows his head slightly in thanks, locates a set of clothes and toiletries from the boxes and slips into the bathroom. 

It’s the first time he’s seen his reflection since leaving the station weeks ago. He looks how he feels: confused and hollow and tired. His scales are all dry and cracked, and there are fresh scars on his face he doesn’t even remember getting. One on his jaw, another cutting through his eye-ridge. 

He smiles, to test whether it’s believable. The mask doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

A shape blurs in the mirror behind him as he shrugs off the replicated clothes.

“So, that’s it, then? Back to your tailor’s shop and running errands for the Federation?” Tain jovially says, in that particularly condescending way of his. 

Garak has several things he’d like to say. He can’t say any of them, because Bashir is on the other side of the bathroom door, has augmented hearing, and will likely insist on worrying and asking questions if he learns that Garak is having conversations with his murderous dead father. 

All he can do is give the vision a dirty look in the mirror before turning on the water. 

Blissful warmth seeps into his bones and finally,  _ finally  _ washes away the stiff, cramped cold of that freezing white room. 

He closes his eyes. 

The bathroom smells of Bashir’s shampoo and cologne.

Most of him hurts in one way or another. It’s awkward to dress himself and do his hair with one hand, and shoulder might have been dislocated at several points in the past few weeks, which isn’t helping. 

And as a consequence of being firmly middle-aged - and of spending about thirty years of his life being beaten, shot and buried alive, a lot of his joints were starting to get sore in the cold even before being kidnapped and tortured. 

He’s got more old wounds than he can count. 

Scars buried under scars, torn muscles that never knit back together properly because he didn’t give them time to heal before going back out to get shot at again. 

Frankly, he wants to lie down for a very long time and not get up. 

He glances at himself again. His eyes are dark, his cheeks hollowed, his hair a little longer than he usually likes it. His clothes hang loosely where they were meant to be tailored to fit; he hasn’t been this thin since he was an active operative. 

“Do you think that will make the difference between  _ dear Julian _ taking pity and fucking you or not?” Tain casually asks. 

“It’s really not a matter of aesthetics,” Garak grumbles, peering at a new scar he’s spotted beside his ear. Shockingly enough, being tortured hasn’t made him any more attractive, not that it matters. Julian wouldn’t look twice at him either way. 

_ “Sorry?” _ comes Bashir’s voice from outside the bathroom.

“Nothing, I’ve, ah-” he fumbles around and grabs his hair oil as though Bashir can see the thing he’s lying about. “I’ve found it.” 

_ “Jolly good.”  _

Tain fills up too much space in the tiny bathroom. "Do you think he would have opened his home to you if he knew the things you've been thinking about him? If he knew you were an abomination?" 

Garak sighs and tries to shut him out. He thought this would be over. He's surrounded by the comforting smell of Bashir's quarters. He doesn't need to escape into his mind anymore. Now, he's trying to escape _from_ it. 

Why isn’t it over?

"Imagine that, Garak. Think about the look on his pretty little face when he realises what kind of deviant you really are." 

Garak casts a scathing look at the hallucination and silently wills it to disappear back to whatever awful corner of his consciousness it arose from. 

He's heard that on Earth, acting on sexual attraction to the same gender isn't as taboo as it is on Cardassia. He's heard people like him can marry like everyone else, can even adopt _children_. He's seen people come into his shop together or stroll down the promenade or kiss each other in public, completely unashamed. 

They flaunt it the way ordinary people do. As if they, too, are merely ordinary people. 

But not on Cardassia. 

And besides, Bashir isn't like that. He's always been _very_ straightforward with his romantic interludes, and they have never included middle-aged Cardassian men. 

When he comes out of the bathroom, Bashir replaces the wet bandage around his hand with a fresh one. Garak sees his bruised and swollen fingers before the doctor’s careful, warm hands wind a new dressing around them again. 

He could easily do this himself, but he savours every moment where their skin brushes together, every second of contact with another living being that is not only painless but pleasurable. 

Afterwards, Bashir - embarrassed, again, though Garak can’t immediately detect why - shows him a drawer he’s cleared out in his dresser where Garak can put his clothes for now. He also presents him with another box, containing his books, disruptors, phaser and knife. 

“I was wondering if you’d managed to find these."

“And I was wondering what  _ a simple tailor _ could want with so many weapons hidden in so many different places in his own quarters,” Bashir wrly says. “And I won’t be pleased if I find one of them duct-taped under anything, so be warned.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Garak smiles. 

He feels like he shouldn’t be here, like this is all an elaborate hoax, and at any minute Bashir’s face will melt away into the disturbing smoothness of a Founder. Nightmares have always felt more real to him than dreams; weeks of torture feel more believable than even a day of sharing a living space with the man he fantasised about merely speaking with to cope with the pain. 

“Are you alright?” The eyes have gone painfully soft, wrinkled with concern, and Garak shakes himself off. 

“Lost in thought. What were you saying?”

“I was saying, we’ll be able to get a bunk in here tomorrow, but for now I want you to take the bed, and  _ no- _ ” he loudly says, raising his hand before Garak can argue, “that is  _ not  _ up for debate. You had major surgery barely two days ago. You nearly died.” 

“It happens. And regardless, I’ve slept on far less comfortable surfaces than your sofa, doctor.” 

“I don’t care. I’m prescribing bed rest - in a proper bed - and that’s final.” 

Garak concedes by inclining his head. “I defer to your good judgement.” He’s certainly not averse to sleeping in a proper bed for a change, and though it would be nicer if Bashir were with him, he restrains the urge to make the invitation. Bashir would find it traumatising, most likely. 

He steps into the bedroom to deposit a box under the bed, and finds his Cardassian daisy flowering on the bedside table. 

“Oh. Hello,” he says to it, and immediately feels a bit of an idiot. 

“Is that one going to be alright?” Bashir asks from behind him. “It’s ever-so pretty, and I really wasn’t sure how to stop it from drooping like that.” 

Garak blinks at him. It’s one thing to keep all a dead friend’s houseplants, and quite another to put one of them - the flower that just so happens to have romantic connotations in Cardassian culture, mind you - by one’s bedside. 

“Hm? Oh, it’s fine. A little limp, perhaps, but that’s to be expected. We’ll get it back to fighting form in no time.” 

Bashir sighs in relief. “Good. I was terrified I’d kill them all, frankly.” 

“All it takes is common sense and attention to detail, both of which you possess in spades,” Garak says. “I couldn’t have chosen a finer home for them myself.” 

That elicits the particularly charming face Bashir makes when he’s pleased with himself. Perhaps Garak should compliment him more often. That seems to be how humans express affection for one another. 

“I suppose it might be time for a late lunch,” Bashir says. 

“Perhaps it is,” Garak says. “Oh, but I’m afraid I don’t have any new reading material to discuss.”

“I’m sure we can think of something to talk about,” Bashir says. “The replimat?”

Garak has never been more enthralled with the prospect of mediocre replicated food. 

“Of course.”

He can't quite believe it. He can actually sit down for a meal with Bashir in the real world. He doesn't have to invent the other side of the conversation anymore.

Before they leave, he turns back to look at the Cardassian daisy on the bedside table and tries to imagine Bashir tending it, watering it carefully and applying the right nutrients to the soil. The man’s pervasive, unending care drips from every petal. 

It’s beautiful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more pining, more angst...let me know your thoughts!! - alex


	7. Something You Don't Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lunch is interrupted by complicated news from Odo.

Julian can hardly believe they’re back where they were before all this, sitting at the same table in the replimat over the same meals, as though nothing happened at all. 

He’s trying to catch Garak up on what’s been happening on the station in the past few weeks. It’s a novelty that he’s the one who knows what’s been going on; usually Garak hoards every piece of gossip on the station, though he tends to call it _reliable intelligence._

“So it turned out that Quark had been smuggling in these beetles, and everyone was sneezing all the time because half of them had escaped and laid eggs in the jeffries tubes. I think you could have heard Odo shouting at Quark from the other side of the wormhole.” 

Julian looks up from his pasta and instead of Garak’s usual expression of polite, somewhat exaggerated interest, he looks completely zoned out, staring over Julian’s shoulder. 

Julian glances back, but the promenade carries on as normal behind him. 

He turns his head back to look at Garak, and the Cardassian suddenly seems to come back to life, hurriedly scooping up some of his food. 

“Are you alright?” Julian asks. 

“Yes, I’m sorry, What were you saying?”

“If you’d rather go somewhere more private, I’d understand.” He should have known it was too soon to plug Garak back into his daily routines on the station. He’s been distracted all day, almost to the point of dissociation. Sometimes he starts to speak and then cuts himself off like he's forgotten something. 

_“No."_ Garak almost snaps at him, holding his hand up. “No, that won’t be necessary. I was distracted by- by the frankly hideous coat one of Quark’s waiters is wearing today, that’s all. You were saying something about the wormhole?” 

“Well, I _was_.” About ten minutes ago, actually. “Never mind about that. Garak, I…I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.” 

It’s as honest as he can be about the mess of feelings that are blurring together in his chest without exposing the true depth of them. 

And Garak, being Garak, deliberately misses the point. 

“It’s always a pleasure to inject some mild interest into your mealtimes,” he dryly says.

“It hasn’t been the same without you,” Julian pushes. 

Garak looks over Julian’s shoulder again, squinting slightly, and then blinks back into focus. 

“Well, I was certainly glad to see you. What is it humans say? ‘A sight for sore eyes’?” 

He smiles in that ambiguous, flirtatious way of his that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s serious or not. The thing about Garak is that everything he says is partially true and partially false. The hard part is working out which parts he means to be which.

_Julian. I had hoped to see your face again, one last time._

He’s still thinking about the way his name sounded in Garak’s voice. How can he get him to say it again? 

His combadge beeps at the worst time. 

_“Odo to Bashir. Can you meet me in the wardroom, please, doctor?”_

“Um-” He looks at Garak, who shrugs and gestures for him to go. “Alright, Constable. I’ll be right up. I’m sorry, Garak.” 

“Not to worry, doctor. I have a report to write, and I imagine we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other in the next few days.”

“I suppose so. Oh, I’ve got something for you-”

He rummages in his pocket and pulls out a datarod, which he hands to Garak. “Hamlet.” 

“Hamlet?” 

“Hamlet. It’s another play by Shakespeare. And I know how much you appreciated his literary prowess last time.” 

Garak stares at the rod like he can’t quite believe he’s holding it. “Yes, I recall he made some fascinating narrative choices in _Julius Caesar._ ” He doesn’t mean that as a compliment. 

“You’ll love this one, then,” Julian grins at him as he clears up his tray, leaving Garak to finish his lunch by himself. “Oh, and _please_ try to take it easy.” 

Garak makes a face. “I shall do my best.” 

He’s a difficult person to worry about. Most people, when asked if they’re alright, will automatically say ‘yes’, and only open up after a bit of prompting. Garak, when asked if he’s alright - even when it is patently obvious that he’s having some kind of breakdown, will say ‘yes’ and emphatically refuse to give any other answer unless it becomes physically impossible for him to deny his situation any longer. 

When he gets to the wardroom, the entire senior staff is sitting at the table, looking rather severe. 

“What’s going on?” Julian asks. 

“Has Garak told you anything about what happened?” Odo asks. 

“Not much. I didn’t want to push it, obviously. He told me Lieutenant Heret was in the cell opposite him, in the lower part of the prison facility. Why? Have you found something?” 

Odo sighs and stands up beside the screen, holding a padd. 

“I’ve been reviewing the security files seized from the facility, as Chief O’Brien decrypts it. There’s been no record of Heret as yet, but there are hours of video files to sift through. However, there is one in particular which indicates that Garak divulged information with the Dominion.” 

Julian feels a rush of dread surge through him. “Garak wouldn’t do that.” 

“I’m not making a judgement of his character, merely explaining the situation as it stands. We haven’t been able to locate the second half of the recording, and as such we have no idea what Garak actually told them. It could be anything.” 

“You don’t seriously believe he told them the truth? I mean, you know what it’s like to try to get a straight answer out of him even when he likes you.” 

“I don’t know. It’s not like he’s on our side,” Kira says. “Ever since Cardassia joined the Dominion, it’s only been a matter of time.”

“That’s ridiculous. He fought with the rest of us on the _Defiant_.”

“All I’m saying is that a Cardassian and a Bajoran went out there five weeks ago, and only the Cardassian came back alive,” Kira says. 

“Barely! If you’d seen what they did to him-” 

“That’s _enough_ , doctor,” Sisko calmly cut in. “If the Constable says he has evidence of a breach of information, then I believe him. And we obviously can’t trust Garak to be honest about whatever it was he said. So what can we do?” 

“I’ll get to the bottom of it, Captain.” 

“Can’t it wait?” Julian asks. 

“A security breach that threatens the entire Alpha Quadrant cannot be ignored, doctor,” Odo gravely says. “I will be speaking to Garak, _tomorrow,_ whether it’s medically approved or not.” 

Julian bites his tongue. He can’t help but feel defensive of Garak after what he saw. All that blood…

He trusts Odo’s judgement; he’s just doing his job, and he’s not biased against Garak. And after seeing everything the Dominion put him through, he can’t judge Garak even if he did give up some Starfleet secret he wasn’t supposed to know in the first place. 

But it just feels _wrong_. 

Garak has always given off an aura of being in control, of being indestructible. They’ve faced certain death together. He’s patched up dozens of Garak’s broken bones in the past, from Klingon attacks and accidents and all sorts of the nonsense that happens on DS9, and none of it has ever bothered him more than the inconvenience of having to sit still in the infirmary. 

Julian has never seen Garak truly affected by anything except the psychological. Exile, addiction, a cramped space in a prison wall.

That Garak could be physically broken somehow makes him feel sick. 

“I want to see it,” he says to Odo, after the meeting. 

“See what?” 

“The files you found. You said there was footage implying he’d betrayed us to the Dominion. Well, I want to see it.” 

“I’m not sure that’s wise, doctor.” 

“Why not?” 

Odo shifts uncomfortably and sighs. “It isn’t easy to watch.” 

“I don’t expect it to be. He’s my friend. I just...I have to see it for myself.” 

“Garak is staying with you for the time being, isn’t he?” Odo says. 

“Yes. And he will be until there’s somewhere better for him to go,” Julian firmly says. 

“It hasn’t occurred to you that he might have become a Dominion spy?”

“For god’s sake, Odo, you saw him. That wasn’t an act. He was tortured, nearly _killed_ trying to escape. Anything he did to help the Dominion, he did against his will. I’m certain of it.” 

Odo tilts his head back a little, then nods. “I’m glad to hear it.” 

He's glad that while Odo is paranoid and mistrustful, he is also loyal to those he considers friends. And for some reason, he considers Garak his friend, or at least a persistent security risk, which is a very close equivalent.

He accompanies Odo to the security office, feeling his body tingling with anxiety. It’s stupid, really. Whatever is on the files has already happened. Julian seeing it won’t change anything. But not knowing the exact circumstances makes him nervous. The slightest glance or change in tone could alter the meaning of events so drastically that he can’t rule anything out until he’s seen the video. 

Odo pulls the file up on the screen and leaves him with only a sideways glance. Julian waits for the door to the holding cells to close before starting the video. 

A bright white room, one of the cells in the Dominion prison. A bloody grey body on the floor, between two Jem’Hadar, at the feet of a Vorta. 

_“How old are you?”_ Comes Garak’s crackling voice. 

They ignore him.

_“Honestly, I’m curious. I’ll go first if you’re embarrassed. I’m fifty-three. Which, by the way, is far too old to be knocked about on freezing metal floors. Plays havoc with the joints.”_

One of the soldiers glances at the other and shrugs. 

_“Eight months,”_ one says. 

_“Two years,”_ says the other. 

Garak pushes himself up with shaking arms and snorts, his mouth curving into a twisted smile. 

_“Then I’ve been playing this game quite a bit longer than you,”_ he observes. 

The first soldier, the eight month old killing machine, spins a baton in his hand and slams it into Garak’s ribcage. The baton buzzes and sparks, and Garak’s skin hisses as it burns on contact. Julian flinches out of instinct. He remembers treating those electrical burns. This could only have been a few days ago.

 _“This is not a game,"_ the Vorta calmly says. 

Garak tries to push himself up again, coughing. It sounds wet and agonised and horrible, and then it gets worse. 

Because then, he starts laughing. 

_“Of course it’s a game!”_ His hand slips on a spot of his own blood and he crumples over, still laughing. _“It’s all a fucking game.”_

Five years of knowing Garak, and Julian has never, _ever_ heard him swear. He’s never seen him this unhinged, either. The room feels ten degrees colder. Sweat tingles on his back. He wants to look away but he can’t stop watching. 

The soldier raises the baton again, shocks him in the ribs again and Garak tries to push it away, still laughing. 

The laugh turns into a kind of choked sob as he coughs again, and it is the worst thing Julian has ever heard. Blood is still caught between Garak’s lips. He spits it out and it dribbles down his chin as he hunches up into himself, curled on the floor with his head hidden in his arms.

He’s silent long enough that the Jem’Hadar raises the baton again. 

_“Wait, wait-”_ Garak weakly says, and waves his arm to stop it. _“Please, I’m done. I’m done.”_ He sounds exhausted.

Korva crouches beside him. _“I’m waiting, Garak.”_

Silence. 

Julian's breathing feels far too loud. 

_“There is something-”_ He licks his lips and wipes away another string of blood with the back of his hand. _“There’s something you don’t know. Something the Federation doesn’t want you to know.”_

 _“And they just so happened to tell you?”_ Korva asks. 

Garak chuckles to himself and pushes onto his hands and knees again. 

_“It’s my job to know things people don’t want known.”_

_“Not anymore.”_

_“Old habits._ ” Garak closes his eyes. He doesn’t even smile. He looks completely defeated. _“I want something in return.”_

 _“Now you know that’s not how this works,”_ Korva says, in a sing-song voice. 

_“Oh, but this is worth it, and you can’t afford to wait any longer.”_

_“And why is that?”_

Garak just shakes his head. _“Not until you guarantee me this.”_

She sighs. _"That rather depends on what it is you want. Bearing in mind, of course, that the Dominion does not cede to the demands of its prisoners.”_

Silence.

The screen buzzes and blurs, the file corrupting. The last thing he sees is Garak’s blank, dead-eyed expression as he begins to speak, and the video ends. 

Julian doesn’t move for a long time. His body feels cold and heavy. 

How the hell is he supposed to feel about that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand more angst!


	8. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odo debriefs Garak, and tensions on the station come to a head in Ops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags updated for upcoming chapters.

“Are you absolutely certain you’ll be alright there, doctor?” Garak frowns at him from the doorway to Bashir’s bedroom as the doctor throws a few blankets onto the sofa. It looks far too small for a man of his height to sleep comfortably on. 

“I’ll be fine,” Julian says, with a tight smile. He’s seemed more distant since lunchtime. Perhaps Garak was too forward then, and said something that hinted at his unwelcome affection, and now Bashir regrets offering his home to a man like him. 

He still can’t quite believe it. Bashir is kind, he’s always known that, but he isn’t in the habit of inviting people to stay with him unless-

And that isn’t what’s happening, obviously. Bashir pities him. Perhaps he feels responsible, as Garak’s only real friend, for his wellbeing. Whatever it is, Garak isn’t going to complain about getting to stay with him, to sleep in the same _room_. 

It’s just that nothing feels real. 

The harsh overhead lights of the station flash in the corner of his vision. They’re burned into his eyes when he blinks, and it feels like the white cell is waiting in the periphery, waiting for the vision to fade and reality to set in again. 

Maybe if it wasn’t so bright or so cold here, he could push it out of his head. 

When the lights go out in Bashir’s quarters, he can relax his eyes at last. But in the shadows, things move. There’s a figure standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Garak huddles in the mass of blankets Julian gave him and turns onto his side to avoid looking at it. 

Patterns dance before his eyes, morphing shapes that blend into regnars scampering up the walls. 

It’s not real. He knows none of it is real. 

But it’s still there. 

He can hear the regnars’ claws scratching the walls, he can hear people moving in the room around him. They can’t be real, but there’s a chance that they are, and if they are- if just one of those footsteps belongs to someone with more substance than a dream, he’s just lying here waiting for them to slit his throat-

He darts upright, holding the blade he keeps under his pillow, and comes face to face with a stone-faced agent of the Tal Shiar, standing at the foot of the bed. Not moving, not attempting to kill him. 

Just standing there. 

They do that a lot, these images. Stand and watch him. A few will talk, but the things they say are difficult to understand, like they’ve been lost in translation through the filter of twenty years of blurred memory. 

Tain is the only ghost which appears to know it exists solely within Garak’s head, and is determined to torture him regardless. 

_“We’ve been watching you for some time now,”_ says the Romulan, but his mouth moves at the wrong time and his voice seems to come from under the bed. 

He watches the Romulan, frozen, until it becomes clear that nothing is going to happen. Then he turns his back, closes his eyes, thinks of a sprawling Cardassian desert, and tries to sleep. 

The Romulan follows him through his dreams. 

He paces behind Garak in the desert. 

And when he wakes, he stands behind Julian while they sit and eat breakfast together. It would be the kind of soft domesticity Garak craves from him, except for the Romulan, who continues to stand silently behind Odo in the security office while Garak suffers through the tedium of debriefing. 

“I’ve _told_ you this already. Korva asked me to provide her with details about the Federation’s war footing. I didn’t. She found that irritating.”

“You didn’t tell her _anything?_ ” 

“Constable, you of all people can attest to my ability withhold accurate information from people when necessary.” 

Odo just hums and looks back at his padd. “Tell me about Lieutenant Heret.” 

“ _As I wrote in my report,_ she was held in a separate part of the facility until about a week ago, when she was moved to the cell opposite mine, and then taken for interrogation. I don’t know what they did with her after that, though I could make a depressing guess.” 

“And you included everything in this report?” 

“Everything of relevance, yes.” 

“I’ll decide what’s relevant and what isn’t.” 

This feels far too much like an interrogation for his comfort. It’s not as though he’s done anything wrong this time. Apart from inconveniencing the Federation by continuing to live, of course. 

Garak feels his body tighten involuntarily. What’s going to happen to him if he answers these questions wrong? 

There are holding cells just beyond the door behind Odo.

“Tell me about your escape plan.” 

“It was hardly a _plan._ The power happened to fail when Starfleet started bombarding the facility. Myself and the others in the corridor were able to leave our cells and overpower the Jem’Hadar.” 

“Five malnourished victims of torture were able to incapacitate and disarm two Jem’Hadar soldiers?” 

“Why don’t you ask the Romulans? They’ll tell you. They were Tal Shiar, from the looks of them.”

The Romulan standing behind Odo shifts, sticking his chin up slightly. He reminds Garak of one of the men in the Dominion prison. 

“Were you familiar with any of them?” 

The lights overhead are too bright. He hates sitting on the other side of a desk, it reminds him too much of Tain, and if he thinks of Tain he’ll conjure him up, standing beside the Romulan, sipping a drink. 

“The opportunities for conversation were rather limited. I didn’t so much as see anyone else except when they were dragged past my cell. Now if you’re quite finished with these ridiculous questions, I would like to go back to my shop.” 

The Romulan escorts him from behind like a guard, and he tries to ignore the stares of those he passes on the promenade. 

“It’s not often people have to see the ghost of a monster they hoped was gone forever,” Tain says, examining himself in the mirror in Garak’s shop. “This place is awfully drab, Elim.” 

Garak shuts the door, locks it and turns out the lights so he can get a rest from the punishing, blinding brightness, and sinks to the ground. 

He’s so tired. 

***

“How’s it going, then?” Miles asks over a raktajino, when Julian makes his daily afternoon trip to Ops. “You and Garak. He said anything about...?” 

“No, he hasn’t, and frankly, I wish people would stop acting like he’s some kind of traitor,” Julian says. 

“Actually, I was gonna ask if he said anything about how he’s doing. Can’t be easy, you know.” 

“Oh. No, he hasn’t said anything about that, either. I’m sorry, Miles, I just...they nearly killed him. If it was anyone else, they wouldn’t be blamed for giving up whatever he did. But because he’s, well, _Garak_ , it’s like people are looking for an excuse to treat him like he’s done something terrible.” 

“You think so?” Miles says. “I thought everyone was being pretty reasonable about it. Not like it’s his fault.” 

“Come on, you heard what Kira said in that briefing. She thinks it’s his fault Heret is dead!” 

Miles glances into the captain’s office, where Sisko, Odo and Kira are currently in the midst of a heated debate. 

“Kira’s...Kira. She’s always gonna have a certain attitude to Cardassians. And I mean, I don’t blame her. We all saw some pretty awful stuff during the Border Wars. The things they do to their prisoners...it isn’t right.” 

“You think he _deserved_ it? Why, because he used to be in the Obsidian Order?” Julian incredulously says. 

“No-one deserves that. I’m saying, she feels the way she feels, and you’re not gonna get anywhere arguing with her.” 

“Arguing, doctor? Now I’m intrigued.” 

Julian’s blood runs cold. He turns around. How long has Garak been standing there? 

“What are you doing here?” 

He can’t read Garak’s expression. It’s closed off, a blank, polite smile. Never a good sign. 

“Well, I exhausted myself reading that drivel your Shakespeare calls fine literature, so I thought I’d better make myself useful, and ask if the Constable has any coded transmissions from Cardassia for me to have a look at.” 

“He’s just in with Sisko,” Miles gestures to the captain’s office with his mug. “Shouldn’t be long now.” 

“Thank you, Chief.” Garak nods politely. 

“Hang on a minute, you can’t be up here,” Julian says. Garak tilts his head. “I, um, I mean, you’re supposed to be resting. I’ll give you some more Shakespeare to be cross with if you like, but I really don’t think you ought to be stressing yourself out over the war yet.” 

What he really doesn’t want is for Garak to insert himself into Starfleet business when he’s just been tortured half to death and given up some Federation secret he wasn’t supposed to know. He’s too fragile at the moment, and he’s going to end up hurt. 

But that’s not the sort of thing Julian can say to his friend, to someone he loves. 

“While I appreciate the intent behind your concern, doctor, it is beginning to border on patronising. I was trained for this sort of situation. All I needed was a little rest, which I am grateful you were kind enough to provide, and now I am perfectly capable of doing whatever is required of me so that I might be of some assistance.” 

It sounds cold, rehearsed. A false veneer of gratitude and politeness. 

“Training isn’t the same as reality, Garak.” 

“Oh, you don’t say? That’s a truly fascinating insight, doctor, I’m so glad you’ve decided to share it with me.” 

He’s furious. It burns behind his eyes. Julian’s put a foot wrong somewhere and he doesn’t know where. 

He looks back. 

Odo is bowing his head to Sisko the way he does before leaving a conversation. All Julian’s instincts scream for him to get Garak out of here before the meeting ends and Kira comes out of the office. 

“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t expect anyone who went through what you did to be back to normal in just a few days.” 

“Would you _stop_ that?” Garak snaps, loud enough that when the doors to Sisko’s office open, he can tell Kira and Odo have heard it. “What do you think I’ve ‘been through’ that I haven’t been through a dozen times before? This is hardly the first time I have been incarcerated, nor the first time someone has tried to extract information from me by force. Why are you so insistent that the _Dominion_ of all people must have succeeded where terrorists and dissidents and the Tal Shiar have failed, and damaged me so irreparably that I am suddenly no longer capable of rational thought?”

Julian flounders. What is he supposed to say? 

_Because I know they broke you?_

“I think what Julian means is that if he had an excuse to take a few weeks off to sit around reading Shakespeare, he’d jump on it,” Dax says, trying to keep the peace. Julian has never been more grateful for her level-headed approach. 

“You’re far too generous, Commander,” Garak says. His eyes flick around Ops, landing in seemingly random places before returning to burn holes into Julian. “I think what Julian means is that I am no longer to be trusted.” 

This is not the situation Julian hoped to hear Garak finally say his name while cognisant. 

“Right, because we all trusted you so unreservedly before,” Kira scoffs. “I’ll say it, because the doctor here is too blind to accept the truth. You got scared, so you gave up Heret and anything else you had to save your own skin. And that's fine. People do what they have to to survive. Maybe I’d be okay with what you did, except that you don’t even have the courage to admit it!” 

There’s fire in her eyes to match the ice in Garak’s. 

“That’s completely out of order-” Julian starts to argue, but Garak cuts him off. 

“Fascinating theory, Major. I could deny it, but without conclusive proof one way or the other, what is the point in defending myself?” 

“Oh, we have the proof,” Kira says. “Odo?” 

“This really isn’t the time or place for this kind of conversation, Major,” Odo says. He looks uncomfortable. 

“No, please, Constable. Go ahead. I would be fascinated to hear what it is, exactly, that you have proof of, and equally fascinated to hear why you’ve neglected to mention this to me until now,” Garak says, stepping closer and closer to Odo, and closer and closer to a very dangerous line. 

“What is going on out here?” Sisko steps down from his office, looking at the scene unfolding in Ops. 

“Perhaps we could step into your office, Captain?” Odo says, before Garak can start ranting again. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Garak hurriedly says. He’s looking at Sisko like...Julian can’t place it. It’s like he’s afraid, but he can’t be. He's never had an issue with Sisko before.

“One question, doctor,” he says, avoiding eye contact with Sisko. “You really think I would, don’t you?” 

Julian doesn’t know what to say. He can’t tell him that he’s seen the video; that’s not going to do anything but make the situation worse. 

He's silent just a moment too long. 

“I see.” 

“Garak, wait-” 

Garak does not wait. He does not defend himself, or even make up a story. He just turns bitter.

“If you can be bothered to think of a use for me, I’ll be in my shop,” he announces, and Julian feels the steel in his voice like a slap to the face.

Before he or Odo can call him back, Garak strides into the turbolift and disappears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more drama, more pain...one day they will not be suffering but that day is not today.


	9. Watching You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak panics and gets paranoid after the argument in Ops and has a full blown psychotic episode.

Garak doesn’t mind being mistrusted. It’s par for the course, for a spy. 

But even _Julian.._. 

He can’t live like this. If Starfleet decide that he can’t be trusted, he will lose the small amount of freedom he’s just got back. He’ll be in another white cell with a faceless guard at the door, with electricity humming through his bones. 

He locks the door of his shop behind him and leaves the lights off. The darkness soothes him. His father’s presence doesn’t. 

Tain lingers in the shadows. “The more time you spend sitting around waiting to ‘recover’ - whatever _that_ means - the more time they’ll have to construct their theories - the more time they’ll have to work out ways to break you.” 

They’re going to lock him up. 

Why? What do they think he said to the Dominion? 

What _did_ he say? 

He was knocked unconscious so many times he can’t possibly remember everything he said to Korva. But he’s sure he didn’t tell her anything important. He would remember. 

“Would you?” Tain asks. 

He knows plenty of things Starfleet would rather he didn’t know. Plenty of things the Dominion would love to have pulled out of him. 

Did he…?

He remembers talking to the Vorta. 

Screaming. 

“A Founder. I spoke to a Founder.” 

He remembers a Founder. The blurry, uncomfortably smooth face looking down at him in disgust. 

“I don’t remember what I said.”

Nausea overwhelms him. He can’t _remember._

Odo seemed certain he had proof that he’d done something wrong. He trusted Odo, more than any of the rest of them. 

“It’s not as though it matters. They aren’t your allies, Elim. They aren’t your friends. Not even _dear Julian_.” 

“Of course it matters! If I can’t even remember doing that, if I can’t even trust myself…” 

Garak paces back and forth in the darkness like he did in the small white cell before it started to hurt too much. 

He’s breathing too fast; his ribs are starting to hurt again. 

What if they truly broke him?

If he can’t trust his own mind, what has he got left? 

He’s useless. 

Maybe Starfleet would be right to lock him up. 

“Yes, yes, it’s all very tragic. Your mind crumbles into yet more pathetic little pieces.” 

He keeps a disruptor in his shop; it’s still there when he feels beneath the counter. The weapon makes for a comforting weight in his hand as he continues to pace, glancing back to the door every time a shadow passes in the corner of his eye. 

“They’re coming for you,” Tain says. 

“Yes, but there isn’t much to be done about it, is there?” 

He can’t shoot his way out. He’s tired of killing, his life doesn’t feel worth the violence anymore. 

Rigging the transporters might work, and he could stow away on a transport ship. 

But even if he could get off the station and into hiding somewhere, what would he do? With his mind falling apart, with nothing and no-one, without even the ability to contribute to the war…

What would be the point?

Footsteps stamping in the corridor outside. The Jem’Hadar are coming to take him away. The Tal Shiar operative stands motionless by the door, holding a phaser rifle. 

He’s going insane and Starfleet are going to kill him.

When the door beeps he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Garak? It’s Julian. I know you’re in there.” 

Garak goes still. They’re coming for him. Bashir is the bait, meant to tempt him into opening the door for them. 

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened earlier. Kira was completely out of order. Can you let me in so we can have a proper conversation?” 

It is so hard not to open that door and accept whatever hell he has to go through next. Instead, he sinks down behind the counter and waits. Bashir has a medical override that he’s very fond of using on locked doors between him and people who don’t want to speak to him. 

“Whatever you did, it’s not your fault. I know that, and so does Odo. He won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Even if that were true, there are often circumstances beyond Odo’s control when it comes to Starfleet. They barely trust him more than they trust Garak.

He stays silent. 

Bashir doesn’t say anything else. 

He waits for the inevitable assault for what feels like hours, hunched up on the floor, listening to footsteps and voices and laughter that could be coming from the promenade or his own mind. He can’t tell. 

Earlier, he saw Tain step out of Sisko’s office, and Bashir turned to look at him. 

His madness is getting out of control. He can’t tell what’s real anymore.

They’re making him wait. Leaving the attack until he’s falling asleep before storming the shop and taking him to the holding cells to be interrogated. 

“Won’t be long now,” Tain jovially says. He’s been standing at the counter as though he means to start serving customers. 

He’s so tired. 

If he could just sleep, for a little while, maybe...

The corridor is blindingly bright. He can’t see much except figures flashing on either side of him, dragging him down. 

They’re taking him somewhere new; a new kind of punishment. 

The corridor turns right and they pass through a set of turbolift doors onto the promenade. People stop and watch as the soldiers drag him past. He sees Quark polishing a glass, Odo with his arms folded, watching from the upper level. Lieutenant Heret stands beside him, and beside her is Bashir, stone-faced. 

A glass box in the middle of the promenade. 

No- a coffin. But it’s upright, and the lid is open, and he’s being pushed in, and it’s too tight. 

It’s too small and he can’t breathe. 

He slams his fist against the glass and it doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t even shake. 

The onlookers do nothing, their faces impassive. 

“Let me out!” he tries to shout, but it comes out as a choked noise that even he can’t recognise. He beats the glass over and over until his hands go numb and nothing helps, he’s trapped and he can’t breathe- 

And then the voices start to build, screaming in his ears. 

“Garak.” 

It’s so loud. 

The voices, the stamping of boots and the screaming, the sound of electricity hissing in his bones-

_“Does it make it easier to cope with this, knowing that you deserve it?”_

_“We’ve been watching you for some time now.”_

_“I’m waiting, Garak.”_

_“They’re watching."_

Something touches his shoulder. 

“Computer, lights. Garak, wake up.” 

_“If he finds out he’ll never want to look at you again.”_

_“I should have killed your mother before you were born.”_

Hands scrabble over him, reaching for him, pulling him into the bright white room again. 

“Come on, Garak.” 

“Get off me!” He scrambles back and hides his eyes. He doesn’t want to see whatever it is that’s touching him. 

“That’s not helping. Look, Odo, I can handle this.”

“Are you certain?” 

“I don’t want to crowd him. Go ahead.” 

_“Disgusting.”_

_“I’ve told you everything I know, please stop it-”_

_“I was wondering if you could make some alterations to this suit jacket, it never seems to fit quite right.”_

_“We’ve been watching you for some time now.”_

_“Watching.”_

_“Watching.”_

**_“Watching.”_ **

He can’t stand it. He huddles up, trying to block out his ears as though that will get rid of a noise that’s coming from inside his head. 

Why is it getting worse? 

Why won’t it stop? 

_“From the beginning. What is it exactly that you do for Starfleet?”_

“Leave me alone!” 

His chest burns, all of it burns. 

It’s too much. 

He can’t breathe. 

“Garak, calm down.” 

He knows that voice. It’s warmer and softer than the others. Calmer. More muffled. 

The room is too bright. He can’t look, he doesn’t dare look because if he opens his eyes and sees that small white room he’s going to scream. 

_“Watching you.”_

_“-knowing you deserve this?”_

_“-knowing you’re an abomination?”_

He digs his fingers into the scales around his ears. 

“Careful with your hand, don’t do that.” 

Warm hands curl around his wrists and he flinches, trying to pull back, but they hold fast. He can smell Julian in front of him, more vivid than the whispers and the lights, and grabs onto him, clings to him like a rock on the ocean. 

“Hello,” that soft voice says, a little surprised but not objecting as Garak tips forward and hides his face in his chest. “It’s alright.” 

_“You deserve this.”_

_“We’ve been watching you.”_

_“I should have killed your mother before you were born.”_

His eyes burn. 

Julian’s arms encircle him, not trapping, just holding. 

Whispers sweep under the door. Screams echo down the promenade. 

_“We’ve been watching you.”_

Footsteps and explosions and phaser fire. 

_“If he knew you were an abomination…”_

The sound of a forcefield activating. 

_“I’ve torn a hole in my trousers again, so sorry.”_

Electricity buzzes through a baton. 

_“Does it make it easier to cope with this, knowing you deserve it?”_

_“Does he know?”_

_“Does he know you deserve it?”_

They’re going to take him away. They're going to put him in another white room where he can't breathe and pull out his secrets.

But for some reason, they’re letting him have this first.

So he presses as close to Julian as he can get, holds on tight and waits for the noise to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST. let me know what you think!!


	10. Holding Back the Flood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian tries to help a paranoid Garak.

Julian gets a comm from Odo late at night. There have been reports of a disturbance in Garak’s shop. 

Shouting.

They have to override the lock, and once they do, they find him huddled on the floor behind the counter, yelling. At first he was dreaming, and Julian shook him awake as best he could, but even now it’s like Garak is still stuck in his nightmare, hiding his face, digging his nails into his scalp, talking to nobody. 

Psychosis. 

So he sends Odo away and sits with Garak, tries to talk him through it as best he can. He’s not a counsellor, and he’s never done anything like this, but he can’t let his uncertainty show. He has to hold himself together, for Garak’s sake. 

Garak just leans against him with his head down, silent, which is a sign enough that there’s something deeply wrong. 

“Garak, can you still hear me?” 

“Don’t leave me with them.” Garak’s hold tightens, his voice hoarse and desperate. 

“Okay. I won’t. I’m right here.” 

Julian tries to coax him into relaxing. He rubs his back, feeling the ridges along his spine, the slight protrusions of his vertebrae through his shirt where he’s thinner than he should be. 

“Can you tell me what’s happening?” 

Garak says nothing. Julian lets him think for a minute, but he’s silent for a little too long.

“Garak?”

He groans and detaches from Julian, but keeps his eyes closed, hidden in his hand. 

“It’s too bright. The lights are too bright.” 

“Computer, lights to twenty percent.” The room darkens. “You can look now.” 

Slowly, reluctantly, Garak lowers his hand. He blinks at the floor at first, and then slowly looks up at Julian. His eyes flit around the dark shop, landing on things Julian can’t see with flickers of fear, then he lowers his gaze to the floor again. 

The bandage around his hand has come undone, the end trailing along his arm. 

“Is your hand alright?” Julian asks. 

Garak doesn’t answer. 

Slowly, though, he holds it out to Julian to fix. 

Garak’s skin is cool and rough against his, made of tiny grey scales that seem to change tone when he turns his hand in the dim light. There are scars on his fingers; Julian has never looked closely enough at his hands to know whether they are old or new. 

The more he treats Garak, the more he realises how much of him is made up of scar tissue. 

“When are they coming?” Garak says. He sounds exhausted. 

“Who?”

“Starfleet.” 

“What?” 

“You don’t need to coddle me. I’m aware of the situation. By now, Major Kira will have the Bajorans baying for blood on behalf of Lieutenant Heret, and Starfleet will be all too happy to provide. Even if Sisko could be persuaded to protect me, I expect he’ll receive orders to the contrary from above. Maintaining the Federation’s friendship with Bajor is far more important than the broken mind of a Cardassian traitor.”

He should have realised that Garak’s innate paranoia was going to be a problem when combined with psychosis. 

“Garak, none of that is true. Whatever happened to Heret is not your fault, and you cannot and will not be held responsible for anything you said or did under torture. Nobody’s coming after you. I promise you that.” 

Garak doesn’t say anything for a while, just picks at his sleeve. 

“Will you tell me what happened?” Julian ventures, and Garak drops his head in his hands. 

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I don’t know! I thought...I was so certain I would have remembered if I had told them something, but…” He shakes his head and shuffles back into the corner between the counter and the wall. “Odo has proof. He wouldn’t lie, he’s not like that. He’s not like me. Unless the Dominion doctored something, or- or Starfleet did. It doesn’t make any difference. They’re going to lock me up.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Don’t lie to me. Frankly, it’s insulting. I know exactly what they’re going to do to me. You’re just here to make sure I come quietly, because they know I won’t-” He cuts himself off and glares hard into the corner of the shop. “Shut up,” he mutters to no-one. He’s picking at the scales on his neck. Some of them are bleeding where he tore them out in his sleep. 

“Garak, nobody’s going to lock you up. I promise. Whatever you did, it doesn’t matter. You’re safe here.” 

Garak scoffs at that, and drops his head back in his hands. Julian lets him sit in silence for a while. The long silences are the worst of it. 

“I didn’t want to,” Garak eventually says. 

“I know. I saw- there’s a video,” Julian starts, and doesn’t quite know where to go from there. 

“I want to see it," Garak immediately says. 

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Why not? I already lived it.”

“That’s not the point.” 

“Oh, I see what the problem is. They don’t want me to watch it, because I’ll figure out how they faked it.” 

Julian sighs. Paranoid delusions don’t respond to reasoned arguments, not when they’re this bad, not when he’s so traumatised he’s hallucinating. 

“All I meant is that it can’t be good for you to bring up all those memories again.”

“What do you mean, _bring them up?_ They’re already here. I already live in them.” He gestures at the empty shop. “They won’t leave me alone. How appropriate that the only people who want me are inside my head. The possibilities for conversation are endless.” 

_I want you._ The thought pushes to the front of his mind, clamouring amongst the mess of panic and pain at seeing someone he loves suffering so much. 

“Will you come with me to the infirmary?”

“Why, so you can sedate me?” Garak snaps. 

“The only reason I would ever sedate you against your will is if you were in danger of hurting someone and there was no other way to stop you.” 

“How very Federation. And what if I won’t come to the infirmary, hm? What if I’d like to stay here? What would Starfleet say about that?” 

“Starfleet hasn’t got anything to do with-” Julian sighs. There isn’t any point arguing when he’s being like this. “If you really won’t go, then I won’t force you. For a start, I don’t think I physically could. But I’ll have to go to the infirmary anyway to get what I need to clean you up.” 

“Clean up what?” 

“You’re bleeding.” Julian indicates his neck, where there are scales missing and trails of blood dribbling down. Garak touches his hand to the small wounds and looks at the blood he picks up on his palm in surprise. 

“I can’t even feel it,” he murmurs, and then laughs harshly. “Why is it only now that I can’t feel pain?” 

“Perhaps because of the massive dose of triptaceterine you took,” Julian says, holding up the hypospray he found discarded on the counter when he came in with Odo. He’d also kicked aside the disruptor Garak had been clutching as soon as he’d let it go. 

Garak stares at the hypospray. 

“I don’t remember that. You must have done that. You drugged me!” He scrambles back against the wall, staring at Julian with accusation burning in his eyes. 

“Why would I deliberately give you a drug that I know you’ve abused in the past?” 

“Because you’re working for them. Because Starfleet told you to sedate me and it didn’t work because- because my tolerance for opiates is too high, and now you want me to do your work for you and drag myself over to the infirmary to be tranquillised like a lame riding hound so you can put me away- in- in-” 

He’s struggling to breathe, but he keeps talking. 

“So you can put me away in some white cell somewhere, so they can torture me, so they can drive me insane and make me betray Cardassia again. That’s what it’s all about. The Federation wants to destroy Cardassia. You don’t care about fighting the Dominion. As soon as Cardassia entered the war, everything else went out the window and it became about killing every last one of the _Cardies._ All this time you’ve just been pretending to be my friend because Starfleet ordered you to keep an eye on me.” 

“That’s not true,” Julian says. It’s an effort to remain calm. Getting antagonistic isn’t going to help; it will just rile up Garak more. “I am your friend, and I care about you. Probably a lot more than you realise.”

He scoffs. “You think I don’t hear what your people say? You think I don’t see the way you look at me? To you I’m just a monster.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t think you’re a monster.” 

Garak goes very quiet, picking at a scar on his wrist. 

“I do,” he says. 

And Julian doesn’t know what to do with that. 

He needs to get supplies from the infirmary. A sanitiser and a regenerator to start with, and perhaps an antipsychotic medication as well. He gets to his feet, or he tries to, because suddenly Garak’s hand is around his forearm, holding tight. 

“Wait. Please. I’ll come with you. Just don’t...don’t leave me alone with them.” 

“I won’t. I’ll be right with you the whole time,” Julian says. “Come on, then.” He pulls Garak up. 

He’s silent after that, following very close at Julian’s elbow, keeping his head lowered when they leave the shop and cross the empty, dark promenade to the infirmary. 

The lights are dimmed here too, Major Kira is sitting on one of the beds while a nurse tends to a burn on her bicep, the sleeve of her uniform torn and singed. 

“Doctor. Garak.” She coldly greets.

Garak doesn’t look at her for more than a second. He just ducks his head, eyes vacant, and scans the rest of the infirmary in silence.

“What happened?” Julian asks her. He’s still furious for the way she treated Garak earlier, especially since it caused paranoia strong enough to induce a full-blown psychotic break. 

“Don’t ask.” She looks at Garak curiously. “What happened to you?” 

“Oh, as if you don’t know,” Garak says. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She draws herself up and Garak scoffs. He’s about to go on another tirade of paranoid nonsense, Julian can just see it building in his face. 

He nudges him away from her and steps between them. 

“Garak, stop it. Major, leave him alone.” 

Garak appears hypnotised by Julian’s hand, staring at it where it rests on his forearm. Kira, having noticed Garak’s demeanour by this point, also bites her tongue. 

He tugs Garak over to the furthest bed from her, at the other end of the infirmary, and leaves him sitting there for a moment while he explains the situation to the nurse in a brief whisper. 

“I want to monitor him here for the next few days. Could you bring me some ilochlorodin and get the single room set up?” he asks. Most of the beds in the infirmary are in the same room, but there is a small, private room to the side for single patients with more long-term or severe conditions that require specific monitoring. 

When he gets back to Garak, he’s staring at the bed opposite him with a laser focus. 

“He’s not really there, is he?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the empty bed. 

“There’s no-one there, no,” Julian quietly says. 

Garak hums. “Perhaps you could tell him that. He seems quite upset. Do you think knowing you aren’t real would make you more or less likely to scream?” 

“I don’t know. I suppose I’d have to ask a hologram.” 

“Hm.”

He tends to the torn-out scales on Garak’s neck. There are other little scratches there, and old scars.

“You do this a lot, don’t you?”

“Oh, it’s a terrible habit. I’ve got dozens of those, you know.” 

“I know,” Julian says. “Maybe I can cure you of a couple while you’re in here.” 

Garak chuckles. “I wish you the best of luck.” 

The nurse brings him a hypospray with a vial of ilochlorodin. It’s his best bet at an antipsychotic that will work with Cardassian neurochemistry. 

The next challenge is getting him to take it. 

“That would be the sedative you promised you weren’t going to administer without my consent, would it?” Garak warily says. 

“No, it’s a medication that treats psychosis.” He says that quietly, mindful that Kira is still sitting at the other end of the infirmary having her burnt arm tended to. 

Garak looks back at the bed opposite him. 

“Psychosis,” he repeats. “Why do Starfleet care whether I’m psychotic or not? Do they think I’m incapable of giving accurate answers in their interrogations?” 

“Starfleet has nothing to do with anything,” Julian firmly says. “I’m your doctor, you’re unwell, and this will help. Do you want to argue further, or shall I just administer it?” 

“I do so treasure our arguments,” Garak says, with an usually fond look. “I could ask you which antipsychotic it is, though I doubt you’d tell the truth if you had orders to do otherwise.” 

“Ilochlorodin. And I could tell you that I’m not lying, though I doubt you’d believe me.” 

The fondness turns to resignation. He scans Julian’s face and body language carefully, then looks back at the bed. Julian almost doesn’t want to know whatever it is he’s seeing. 

“Very well,” he sighs. “There’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Go ahead.” 

“Thank you.” 

Garak doesn’t resist the hypospray pressed against his neck. Julian would like to think it’s because he trusts him. More likely, though, is that Garak has simply given up. 

“All done. It will take at least a few hours to have any effect, but once it does, your symptoms should gradually lessen in severity.” 

“The room’s all set up,” the nurse comes by to tell him. Garak glances at her. 

“What room?” 

“I think it’s best if we keep you in the infirmary for a few days,” Julian says. “I need to be able to monitor you, to make sure you’re not putting yourself in any danger, and the easiest place to do that is here.” 

“That would appear to make logical sense,” Garak says, with an expression that says he’s trying to find a conspiracy behind it. “But you know how I feel about those hospital gowns. Since there’s nothing _physically_ wrong with me…” 

“Yes, alright. I won’t make you change. We can bring over your pyjamas instead.” 

Garak bows his head. “You’re most kind.”

“Let’s get you settled in, then I have a few questions I have to ask.” 

The room is at the back of the infirmary, behind a door that locks from the outside if necessary. He unlocks it and the door slides open. 

_"No."_

Garak goes very still when he looks into the small white room, and then all hell breaks loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will probably be the worst of the intense angst, and it will get softer after that! the urge to create angst overwhelms me at every turn.


	11. The Small White Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak runs from the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - implied attempted suicide at the very end of this chapter.

The cell is small and white and there’s a bed at the back.

_“I told you, didn’t I? Julian lied. They’re going to lock you up.”_

A bed with straps. 

_“So they can strap you down while they burn you.”_

Tain is beside him, ranting. 

Julian is behind him, trapping him. 

He can’t breathe. 

“Garak, what is it?” 

“You have a lot of nerve,” Garak snarls. He pushes past the nurse, crashing into a bed as he passes and continuing to stumble back. “What kind of questions do you want to ask me, doctor? Hm? The kind you have to ask me while I’m strapped down in a cell?” 

Julian looks at the cell and then back at Garak with a dawning look of horror like he’s only just realised Garak isn’t quite stupid enough to just walk into an interrogation room without a fight. 

“Oh, _shit_ , no, Garak, I should have realised what this looks like, and I know you’re claustrophobic, I’m sorry-” 

“Leave me alone!”

He can’t breathe. 

They’re going to torture him. Julian is going to torture him. 

_“That’s what doctors do. They drug you and poke around inside your stomach and pull out all your secrets.”_

“Shut up!” 

It’s too loud, too bright. 

_“They’re coming.”_

_“They’re watching.”_

_“He’s going to rip out your insides…”_ sings a little Cardassian child he saw crushed in a riot on Cardassia II. 

A man screams on the hospital bed, his head strapped into a malfunctioning torture device. 

_“You shouldn’t have trusted him.”_

_“He’s going to kill you.”_

“Garak, stop. Calm down. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” 

“Get the _fuck_ away from me!” 

Even Bashir looks shocked by that. Good. He should be. That mask of kindness needs to be ripped off his face. 

He has to get out. 

Romulans and Cardassians and Jem’Hadar stare blankly at him from between the beds as he passes. 

“I need a sedative,” he hears Bashir tell the nurse as he catches up, pushing past the soldiers that block his path. 

Garak turns and comes face to face with Major Kira. She backs away, one hand on her phaser, staring at him like he’s a wild animal about to lash out. He feels like one. 

“Kira, don’t. He’s just confused, that’s all.” 

There is absolutely nothing confusing about this situation. Bashir is holding a hypospray, and he’s going to use it on Garak. He can tell from the angle of his body where he’s trying to hide it as he approaches. 

“Don’t. Don’t you dare touch me.” 

“What the hell is going on?” Kira asks, backing further into the corner as Garak backs away from Bashir. He grabs a scalpel from a side-table and holds it out in front of him. 

“Major, get Odo. Now.” She looks between them. “Now!” Bashir says. 

Once Odo gets here it will all be over. He can’t fight off a changeling. He can’t incapacitate something that doesn’t have bones or organs, something that can’t feel pain. All he can do is run. 

“Garak, wait!” 

He doesn’t look back, just sprints across the darkened promenade to his shop and locks the door. It’s meaningless in the face of medical and security overrides, but it might buy him a few seconds. 

There’s a shortcut hacked into the computer in his shop that will beam him straight to his quarters. Once there he can put up forcefields around the bulkheads to keep Odo out and prevent further beam-ins. And then-

And then nothing. 

He can’t escape. 

He’s trapped here in this tiny, freezing space station populated by people who hate him and want to cut him to pieces, and he can barely breathe as he inputs the code, the scalpel he stole slipping in his hand. 

The transporter hums around him as Odo bursts through the door with Bashir close behind, and he’s swallowed up by the bright lights. 

***

“Where would he go, doctor?” 

“I don’t know!” 

To say Julian is panicking would be an understatement. Garak is gone, having beamed out of his shop to God knows where, in the middle of a psychotic episode where he thinks anyone and everyone is out to get him, and oh, he’s an ex-agent of the _Obsidian Order_ with a history of violence.

“This is all my fault,” he groans into his hand as Odo frantically taps away at the console. “I knew he hated the infirmary, I knew he was claustrophobic, I knew he was psychotic and paranoid about Starfleet, I knew he hated bright lights. And what did I do? I said, ‘here you go, Garak, have a hypospray, you’ll just have to take my word for it that it is what I say it is, now I’m going to put you in this tiny room so I can watch you and ask you questions, is that alright?’ What an _idiot_.”

“Is this self-flagellation going to help us find Garak, or is it just for your own amusement?” Odo asks, not looking up from the computer console. 

“Neither. It’s just a reminder that all the genetic engineering in the world apparently doesn’t give you the gift of bloody common sense,” Julian bitterly says. “Come on, where would he go? he’s - he’s confused, he’s frightened, he thinks everyone is trying to kill him. He’d go somewhere he feels safe. But he’s just left here, his quarters have been reassigned-” 

“Which he seems to have forgotten, because the code he just put into this console activates a transporter sequence that beams him directly into them,” Odo says. 

“Shit. Who lives there now?” 

_“Ensign Montagne to Security Chief Odo!”_ The ensign’s voice crackles over the comm, sounding young and terrified. 

“Odo here. What’s going on, Ensign?” 

_“Um, um, uh, a- a Cardassian just beamed into my quarters. He’s gone now, but, uh- he had a knife.”_

“Stay where you are. Dr Bashir and I are on the way. If you see Garak again, do not approach him, understood? Do not engage.” 

They both start sprinting to the turbolifts.

_“Wait, that was Garak? As in, the spy, Garak? I thought he was on our side?”_

“What did he say to you?” Julian urgently asks.

_“Um, um, something about my quarters, they said they were his and I had to get out, but then he went all weird and started talking to himself, and he opened this, this like, secret panel in the wall and got out a phaser, but he didn’t shoot me or anything. He just ran out the door. Oh my god, is he going to kill me? Tell him he can have his quarters back if he’s that upset about it!”_

“Stay where you are, Ensign. If Garak comes back, do not attack him, do not do anything to antagonise him,” Julian says. 

“He has a weapon,” Odo grimly says. “Odo to Security. I need a team in the Habitat Ring immediately. Suspect is armed and dangerous.” 

Julian turns to him, indignant outrage boiling up from the guilt and frustration. “He’s not a suspect of anything! He’s confused, and scared, and he’s just trying to protect himself. If you send security after him, people are going to end up dead.” 

“Well, what would you suggest? I can’t have a delusional Cardassian spy roaming the station unsupervised.” 

“Let me talk to him.” 

Odo sighs. “Let’s worry about finding him first, shall we?” 

***

The alarms are deafening, lights flashing on the walls. Odo’s voice booms over the comm. 

_“This is Security Chief Odo. Everyone currently in the Habitat Ring is to remain in their quarters until given notice that it is safe to leave.”_

The phaser slips in his sweaty hand. 

_“What are you doing? Are you going to shoot your way out? You’re not a young man anymore, you know.”_

Tain is still following him. 

“I don’t know.” 

Bashir loaned him a holofilm once, an ancient human one about a crime family. He was excited to hear Garak’s opinion on ‘suicide by cop’ as he called it. Rather than surrender, a cornered criminal will often choose to fire against the authorities even when there is no hope of escape. He chooses to fight not in self-defence, but in self-annihilation. 

_“That’s a little tragic, isn’t it? Shot to death by Bajoran security staff on an old mining station because you can’t get your head on straight?”_

“Perhaps I’d be doing a better job of that if you’d shut up for a minute.” 

He creeps along the wall, keeping himself pressed against it so he can see who’s coming around the corner before they see him. 

Jem’Hadar. 

Romulans. 

Cardassian military. 

Bajoran resistance. 

Starfleet. They all run past without seeing him. 

Shadowy figures convalesce in the outskirts of his vision, hovering in the periphery, brandishing rifles and whips and rope. 

_“What do you think was really in that hypospray? A hallucinogen, perhaps. If it was a sedative you’d be unconscious already.”_

The alarm is so loud it hurts, so loud it makes him want to shoot the infuriating speaker that’s producing it. Before he’s even realised that doing so would probably alert the security officers to where he is, he’s fired the shot. The comm unit explodes and the pieces shatter to the ground.

“Garak!” 

Bashir comes sprinting around the corner and staggers to a halt a few feet away when Garak whips up his phaser. 

Odo in close pursuit. 

Another thunderous set of footsteps in the intersection beside them. Bajoran security, pointing their phasers at him. 

“Put your weapons down!” Julian yells at them, holding his arms out so they can’t get past.

They don’t want to kill him. They still want him alive. They still want to rip him apart; whatever he’s got in his head is too valuable to waste. All he has to look forward to is another tiny, freezing room where the walls press in and he can't breathe.

“Garak, please,” Bashir begs. “You’re not thinking straight, there’s been a horrible misunderstanding.” 

“Yes, I see that. I misunderstood your intentions entirely, as you have misunderstood just how unwilling I am to be locked in another cell. Last time Starfleet incarcerated me it was six months. What will it be this time? A year? Ten? The rest of my life? _No._ I refuse.” 

“You’re not going to be locked up. The room in the infirmary isn’t a cell, and you don’t have to stay in there if you don’t want to. We can go back to my quarters, if you like. Or your shop. Anywhere you like. I just want to help you.” 

“Ah, yes. The traditional cry of a man backed by a security team.” 

He keeps the phaser pointed at Bashir. He can’t kill him, not even now. What would be the point? It would only take one shot before the security team started shooting. 

And they won’t even kill him in return. 

There’s no way out of this. 

_“There is one way,”_ Tain says. He’s been waiting by Garak’s side, watching the action unfold. _“It’s very quick and very simple. All you have to do is swallow your pride and do it.”_

The phaser is heavy in his hand. 

“Garak, listen. You’re not well. The things you’re thinking now, I know they seem real to you, but they don’t make sense. Please, just put the phaser down and we can talk about it.” 

Bashir creeps closer. The hypospray is still in his hand, a phaser still on his belt. 

Garak raises his weapon. “Get away from me." 

_“It’s the easiest thing in the world. Think about it, Garak. No more cells, no more questions, no more dirty looks on the Promenade. Just peace and quiet.”_

Tain is right. He’s backed into a corner with half a dozen weapons pointed at him, and there is only one way out. 

One way to ensure he will never be locked in a cell again. 

He raises the phaser higher, tips it back towards himself. 

“Garak, wait, please just think about this.”

_“You deserve this.”_

_“Does it make it easier, knowing you’re an abomination?”_

_“Peace and quiet.”_

"Garak!"

Silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say this would be the worst of the pain! If you can believe it, things will get better from here - they just had to hit rock bottom first.


	12. Silence / Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow steps towards recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a longer one this time bc i didn't know how to split this up any other way - i wanted to get some optimism in here somewhere!!

Julian still feels his hands shaking hours later when he sits by his bed and picks up a padd to read. 

He  _ shot  _ Garak. 

Just to knock him out, obviously, but still. He cocked up his medical care so monumentally that the only way to save his patient’s life was to shoot him with a phaser. 

If he’d been a second later, if he’d missed, Garak would have killed himself. All because of a delusion that Julian didn’t take seriously enough. Garak has always been paranoid, that’s the problem. On the  _ Defiant  _ he made Julian scan his brain in case Starfleet had put a chip in there to read his thoughts. He’s so used to Garak being that way that he brushed it aside, assumed he’d get over it the way he always did. 

In hindsight, Garak has so many risk factors for developing this kind of condition that his mind is practically a melting pot for psychosis. 

Julian’s hands tremble around the padd and he shifts, trying to alleviate the sick worry that won’t go away no matter what he does. 

There will be questions. He doubts anyone he speaks to will think it’s a good idea to keep Garak in his quarters, but where else can he put him? Just looking at the side-room in the infirmary gave him a panic attack, and he’s too unstable for the communal area, with bright lights and sharp tools, and other patients and nurses walking through all the time. 

(Kira suggested a holding cell. Julian had to try very, very hard not to yell at her.) 

So he’s back in Julian’s bed, still unconscious, and Julian is once again by his bedside, waiting for him to wake up. He found the box of weapons he gave back to Garak just a few days ago and hid them under his desk in the infirmary. It’s not safe for him to be around them now. 

He  _ hates  _ this. 

Surely it wasn’t so hard before? All the other times Garak’s been injured or drugged or whatever mess he’s gotten himself into that ended with him unconscious in the infirmary - surely Julian was able to keep himself together better then? 

Maybe it’s because he’s never had to truly worry about Garak in the way he might worry about someone else. An ordinary person might find being held down and beaten to a pulp by a group of Klingons to be distressing. As far as Julian could tell, Garak found it tedious at worst. And now, this- he’s been torn apart. It’s terrifying to see Garak, who he’s always thought to be somewhat indestructible, in such a state. 

Is this horrible, twisting feeling inside him professional guilt or something worse? The knowledge that he failed someone he loves in the one area he’s supposed to never, ever fail? That Garak might never trust him again? 

Garak shifts, his breath catching out of the pattern. Julian still has a sedative lined up in case he panics.

The blue eyes slowly open and Julian breathes deeply when they land on him. 

“Hey,” he says, putting down his padd. 

Garak blinks. “I’m not in a cell,” he slowly says, his usually clear voice now muffled by sleep.

“No, you’re not. And you’re not going to be. You’re staying with me.”

Garak looks at him curiously, eyes tracking around the room, landing on each of his plants, then on the ceiling. He says nothing. 

“Do you remember what happened?” Julian asks. 

Blink. 

Blink. 

He says nothing.

“Earlier, you had...well, you had a sort of... episode, when I tried to have you stay in the infirmary.” 

“I didn’t hurt anyone.” It’s as much a question as a statement. 

“No, no. Everyone’s fine. You got the worst of it, I’m afraid.”

“Hm.” He sighs heavily and holds his bandaged hand up to his face, turning it this way and that like he’s never seen it before, then drops it down to his chest. “Why am I here?”

“Because it’s the safest place for you.”

“You brought a psychotic assassin into your quarters because it was  _ safer _ .” 

“Yes. And here I can keep a proper eye on you.”

“Mm. You take your duty to Starfleet very seriously.” 

Julian sighs. “Bad choice of words. I only meant that I want to make sure you’re alright. You’re safe here. I mean that.” 

Garak scoffs. “I don’t blame you for following orders. Perhaps they threatened you. Or you just want to be rid of me. That’s alright. I would want to be rid of me too.” 

“Don’t say that,” Julian says. He knows Garak’s not thinking straight, that he wouldn’t normally be saying these things. But it hurts how much he seems to  _ believe  _ it. “I already lost you once, and I’m not keen on doing it again.”

More horrible silence. 

Julian rearranges himself in the chair. He shouldn’t be the one doing this, but Dr Telnorri doesn’t know Garak, won’t understand the way he thinks. And Garak certainly won’t speak to a Starfleet counsellor. 

“Garak, I’m going to tell you what I think is happening, because I know asking you to tell me outright is too much. All you have to do is tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” 

Garak is silent, just licks his lips and nods once. 

“Alright. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.” 

His eyes flick to the corner of the room. It seems like an eternity passes before his gaze meets Julian’s, and he nods.

“And hearing things, too?” 

Another, smaller nod. 

“And this started in the Dominion prison.” 

Garak sighs. “I’m not insane,” he says. “I can tell when it’s not real.”

Julian takes a breath. He has to be so careful here. “I’m sorry, Garak, but you can’t.” 

“And how would you know?” Garak snaps at him. He always lashes out when he feels threatened. 

“Lieutenant Heret.”

“What about her?” 

“Odo and Chief O’Brien decrypted more of the files earlier. Two weeks after being captured, Lieutenant Heret was killed in an escape attempt with two other Starfleet officers. You couldn’t have seen her when you say you did.”

Garak rolls his eyes and pushes himself up a bit. “Well- well maybe my memory is a little off. Maybe it wasn’t whenever I said it was. I don’t know! It was difficult to keep track of the days. They never turned the lights off.” 

“They checked all the records they could find.” Julian tries to keep his voice level. “She was never even held in the same part of the facility as you.” 

“No, that’s not possible. That’s not- you’re lying to me. And you’re no good at it.” 

Despite what he’s saying, Julian can see the moment hope dies in Garak’s face, and realises that he might have just done something very stupid. This isn’t going to help, not when Garak’s barely aware of what’s going on around him. He’s never been less pleased to prove him wrong. 

Garak lies back down, defeated. “Just do it,” he says. He gestures to the hyposprays on the side table. “Sedate me.” 

“Why?” 

Garak sighs. “I’m tired, and my head hurts, and I would like to go to sleep now.” 

He doesn’t want to do it. Something rebels in him at the idea of drugging him when he’s not a threat, but Garak is asking, and the longer he’s asleep the more time the antipsychotic has to start working. 

He gives Garak the sedative and another dose of ilochlorodin, and he doesn’t resist. 

“You took my plants,” Garak murmurs, his gaze settling on the daisy on the nightstand. “I suppose you wouldn’t have done that if you hated me. Would have burned them.”

“Of course I don’t hate you,” Julian says. “I…” 

His throat closes out of instinct. He wants to say it but he can’t. It’s not fair to do it like this, when Garak won’t believe him. Even if he would believe it...maybe it’s too late now, after all this. Garak is never going to trust him again. 

“I saw a city burn once,” Garak mumbles. He’s getting more lethargic in his expressions, the sedative starting to take hold. 

“A wildfire swept across half of Cardassia II. It’s practically a desert, it’s so dry there. Nothing could stop the flames. There wasn’t time to evacuate everyone, so in the end, when we’d done all we could, we just stood in the dunes and watched. You’d think the screaming would be the worst part. But really, the worst was when the screaming stopped. Nothing but the flames roaring...and then, in the morning, when all that was left was the smoke...the silence. I like the quiet. But I can’t stand silence.” 

The sedative sets in. Gradually, Garak’s eyes close and his breathing rate slows. 

Julian just watches. It’s all he can do. 

***

It’s warm. Warm and dark. There’s a soft blanket beneath his cheek that carries the scent of Julian. 

His bed. 

There’s a soft, heavy sort of feeling weighing him down that he doesn’t mind at all. 

And for the first time in longer than he can remember, it’s quiet, not silent. He can hear someone breathing, the hum of the station buzzing in the walls, footsteps in the corridor of the Habitat Ring. 

Last night blurs in his head. He can’t make out more than the soft edges of it before the memory leaps out of reach. They were going to lock him up. He was certain of it.

They must think they’re being kind. That’s very important to humans. To Bashir, in particular. They like to think they’re treating their pets humanely. So they’ve swapped a small white room with a bed in Julian’s quarters, because it’s easier to control him here. 

_“They’re naive if they think this place will hold a creature like you.”_

It takes a long time to work up the energy to open his eyes. Julian is still in the chair by the bed, though this time he’s snoring. A padd lays discarded on the floor by his feet. 

A few black figures mill around in the shadows, but they’re not as loud or vivid as they have been.

He needs the bathroom. It’s instinct to get up as quietly as possible, so Julian doesn’t wake, though by the time he gets back, Julian is on his feet, stretching. Garak stops in the doorway, and Julian smiles a little awkwardly at him. He’s much brighter than the shadowy figures, much more alive. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Is that one of the questions you have to ask me?” 

Julian’s face falls. Imperceptible to most; he’s trying to hide his disappointment for Garak’s sake. 

“You still think Starfleet wants to interrogate you.” 

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” 

He looks at the door, but there’s no point asking if he’s allowed to leave. Julian will just tell him it’s safer if he stays where he is, and get out a sedative if Garak disagrees. 

“You’ve been asleep for quite a while. It’s almost 1300 hours now.” Odd. It’s still dark in Bashir’s quarters. For his sake? “We could have lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Garak lies. Actually, he’d kill for some hasperat. But he’s very stubborn and very angry and very tired, so he smiles coldly, gets back into bed and turns his back on Bashir. 

Childish? Yes. But he gave up on his dignity weeks ago. It was taken away from him and now he’s too tired to claw it back. 

If he’s going to die in a cell it might as well be one with blankets.

***

For the next week, whenever Julian enters his quarters, he finds Garak lying in bed, either asleep or pretending to be. He touches Garak’s shoulder each morning and evening to warn him he’s going to give him a dose of ilochlorodin, and the only acknowledgement he gets is a vague hum. Garak might open his eyes and stare at the wall, if he’s lucky. 

The only way he knows Garak isn’t actually catatonic is that he must be using the bathroom - though only when Julian isn’t there. He can only hope Garak is also eating and drinking by himself, because he ignores all Julian’s attempts to invite him to do so.

“We can go out somewhere if you want,” Julian tries to tell him. “You’re not a prisoner here.” 

But Garak just ignores him. 

There’s a bed in the living room now, though he can only manage a few hours of sleep a night before his quarters become suffocating and he has to go back to Ops or Quark’s or the infirmary. He understands now what Garak meant about silence. 

It’s torture. 

It’s like loving someone from behind a pane of bulletproof glass. He can shout as much as he likes, but he can’t break through, and Garak can’t - or won’t - hear him. Every time he tries to include him, to tell Garak about his day or ask him if he wants something, he’s ignored. 

All he can do is wait. 

How long will it take for Garak to believe he isn’t a prisoner? That Starfleet aren’t going to hurt him? How long will it take for him to realise that Julian is still his friend? 

“You have to give him space,” Keiko tells him.

She understands; she went through the same thing with Miles, when the Argrathi put twenty years of incarceration in his head. They have tea together sometimes, when Miles isn’t there.

“I know it’s hard. You’re a doctor. You want to be able to fix him and make it all better, but you can’t. You can’t love someone whole again.” 

He looks up in surprise, and she just smiles gently at him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asks. 

“Only if you know what you’re looking for.”

“Does Miles know?” 

“Miles sees what he wants to see,” Keiko says. “But...give it another couple of weeks, and even he might start to notice.” 

“I miss him,” Julian admits. It feels strange, he feels guilty for saying it. “It’s worse now than when he wasn’t here. Now, it’s like...well, it’s like he still isn’t there. He won’t even look at me.” 

“He’ll come back when he’s ready. You just have to be patient, and give him space. And as much as I know you want him to trust you again, it goes two ways. You have to trust him, too. You might even have to trust him first.” 

He nods, taking it in quietly. She’s the only one he feels like he can talk to about this. 

“He’ll come back to you,” Keiko says. “As much as Miles can be blind to things, even he knows you two have a connection. Garak’s in the best place he could be, with you.” 

“I hope you’re right.” 

He mulls over Keiko’s advice. Give him space, and trust him. 

Difficult to do when Julian is medically obligated to give him an injection twice a day and keep him under supervision. He can't think of a good way to communicate trust without just saying it, because words are clearly getting him nowhere.  If Julian tries to talk to him, he pretends to be asleep, and as much as Julian hates it, he has to step back and let him. He does need the rest, after all, and he’s supposed to be here to recover. If that means spending all day in bed, that’s his choice. 

That’s the  _ point _ , Julian realises, after a frankly stupid length of time. 

He’s making a  _ choice _ .

He’s doing it because he’s angry and paranoid, yes. But Garak hasn’t been allowed any choices of his own for months now. Even once they rescued him, he’s been so restricted that his teenage rebellion of sleeping all day and ignoring Julian’s attempts to talk to him make a great deal more sense. 

Julian keeps telling him he’s safe here and he isn’t a prisoner and they aren’t going to interrogate him, and Garak is just testing him on that - he’s doing it simply because he  _ can _ . 

He’s making a choice. 

Julian knocks on the doorframe to the bedroom one evening, but doesn’t go in. 

“Evening,” he says, to Garak’s unresponsive back. “I’m going out to Quark’s, probably won’t be back before 2500. I’m, um...I’ll leave the ilochlorodin on the table, if you want to take it yourself.” 

Garak says nothing. Julian has to restrain a sigh. Keiko has also had to remind him - several times - that this is not about him. If anyone else was here trying to talk to him, Garak would be just as silent. It just stings and feels odd and wrong because that's what they do. They talk. They argue. 

But now there is only silence. 

He leaves the hypospray on the coffee table and leaves. If Garak doesn’t take it, that’s not the end of the world. One missed dose won’t affect him too badly.

And as expected, the hypo is still full when he returns but he could swear that it’s moved. He glances into the bedroom, dark and silent as ever, and goes to bed. But when he wakes up, dreading having to go into the bedroom and force medication on his friend, he notices something. 

The hypo has moved. 

He left it on the left side of the coffee table, and now it sits in the centre. Nothing else in his quarters has changed. 

He picks up the hypospray.

It’s empty. 

He breathes. He looks into the dark bedroom, from which emerges no sound, no light. 

_ Give him space. _

As much as he wants to say something to Garak, Julian just refills the hypospray, leaves it where it was before he goes to work, and returns to see it’s been used. He does the same that evening, then the next day, and the next. Though there is a chance that Garak is just getting rid of the medication somehow, Julian has to give him the benefit of the doubt. He has to. That’s the only way he can see this working. He has to use as little force as possible. 

And slowly,  _ slowly, _ it starts to work. 

It’s the little things at first. 

When he glances into the bedroom to check Garak is actually still there, the spray-bottle next to the daisy on the bedside table has moved. The petals shine with water droplets. 

One morning he finds the watering can he uses for the bamboo-like plant by the coffee table is empty, and the soil is damp. 

In the evenings, he returns to find the shower door has steamed up, and the towels recycled. He’s almost certain the coffee table has been cleaned too. He deliberately leaves a splash of tea on the table that night to test the theory, and when he returns from work the following day it’s gone, and there’s a coaster sitting very pointedly in its place. 

He smiles without meaning to, glancing up at the ever-dark bedroom. 

His books disappear and reappear; every day a different one is missing. The plants are watered, the space cleaned, towels and washcloths recycled. He even finds some of his laundry done. 

All this silently, secretly, when Julian is out or asleep. But it’s happening. 

Then one morning Julian wakes up to find a mug of Tarkalean tea steaming on its coaster, and Garak is gone. 

His first instinct is panic and comm Odo. Garak has been so unresponsive that there’s no way of knowing what his mental state is. He could be anywhere, doing anything. 

But all he’s been up to recently is reading and stealthy housework, and the fact that he’s left Julian’s quarters for the first time in two weeks is such an improvement that Julian doesn’t want to jeopardise it by sending Odo after him and setting off a bout of paranoia. So he sits down, drinks his tea and goes about his day as normal. 

On his way to the infirmary, he glances into Garak’s shop. The lights are on. 

Lunchtime rolls around after hours of waiting. He takes a deep breath and crosses the promenade. The door slides open for him, and at the counter, Garak looks up from something he’s sewing. 

“Good afternoon, doctor.” His voice is quieter than Julian is used to, and he seems more reserved, but he’s there, and he’s  _ speaking  _ to him. And he’s sewing again. That has to be a good sign. 

“Hello, Garak.” He can hear the nervousness in his own voice. 

Garak smiles slightly, just as nervous. He’s a bit twitchy, tapping his fingers on the counter. The boxes have been cleared from the floor and stashed in the storeroom. 

“Can I help you with something?” he asks. Ah - they’re pretending nothing has happened, then. What would they do if this was a normal day, and there was nothing wrong?

“I was hoping you’d be free to have lunch with me.” He words it carefully, gives Garak space to say he’s busy if he wants to. 

Garak tilts his head, watching him.  “I would be delighted,” he says, his voice still quiet. “Perhaps we could discuss Hamlet?” 

“Let me guess: you’re irritated about how long it took Hamlet to get around to doing anything. In a Cardassian play, Claudius would have found himself swiftly poisoned by the end of Act Two.”

He chose Hamlet in the first place because it reminded him of Garak - the person who talks so much and says so little about what's actually going on, who includes so many double meanings everything he says like a puzzle waiting to be unlocked, waiting for someone to care enough to read between the lines. 

He also chose it because of the assassination.

“Actually, I was going to say that I found myself sympathising with Hamlet’s character,” Garak says, as he walks around the counter and goes about shutting the shop for lunch. 

“He fails to act for so long because he doesn’t know whether he can rely on the information he has been given. He can’t trust what the ghost tells him, no more than he can trust his friends, who are just trying to help him, or even the person he loves.” 

He looks at Julian then, just for a single, nervous second. 

“He knows he’s hurting them, but he can’t seem to stop himself." 

“I think by now, Hamlet’s friends ought to be used to him being a little bit difficult,” Julian fondly says. 

He desperately wants to ask what Garak is thinking, what he’s feeling, if he’s still seeing things, if he’s still afraid of Starfleet taking him away - or if somewhere in the past two weeks his delusions have been quietly dismantled. But, in the spirit of giving him space, of letting him come back on his own terms, he lets the matter lie. 

“The Replimat?” Julian suggests, and Garak bows his head. 

“After you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's getting better!!


	13. Horatio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lunchtime debate is had in an attempt to return to normalcy. (Featuring Hamlet references and pining.)

Julian looks tired. 

_ “Your fault.”  _

The hallucinations aren’t as strong now. A fleeting figure on the Promenade that doesn’t look quite right, a strange whisper Garak can’t place. He’s spent most of the past two weeks trying to learn to live with them. 

Cardassians hallucinate more readily other species, he’s learned. 

(Julian left out a padd of research - whether accidentally or on purpose, Garak doesn’t know. But regardless, he took it into the bedroom and skimmed through it during the night, and returned it in the morning.)

It’s because of the way their memory works. Every moment he’s ever lived exists just beneath the surface of conscious awareness, never fading, never corrupting. He remembers everything so vividly that the memories slip into the real world when his mind can’t cope with reality anymore. 

Apparently, human memory fades over time. When Cardassian memory fades, it means there's something wrong. 

He still doesn’t know exactly what he did. He spoke to a Founder. There was kanar, too, which doesn’t make much sense to him. Perhaps he demanded it in exchange for information? That certainly sounds like something he’d do. 

He thinks- he  _ hopes  _ that he lied to them. 

But whatever he did, in two weeks of moping about Julian’s quarters, being as rude and insolent a houseguest as he could possibly think to be - which, for a Cardassian, meant being utterly silent - there have been no consequences for it. He's given medication that helps him, and he's not been put in a cell. 

He doesn’t trust Starfleet. He never has and he never will. But it seems, for now, that they are content to leave him alone. 

And Julian...despite the embarrassing mess Garak has made of himself, despite the fact that he’s a monster, even despite how awful he’s been, seems to still want to be his friend. 

_ “He has orders to monitor you. He has orders to extract information.”  _

Most of the time now, Tain is just a bitter voice in his head. One he has to fight to ignore. He’s had two weeks of practice at that, too. 

The moment he realised that perhaps he wasn’t going to be tortured was when Julian left the hypospray out for him instead of administering it himself. 

It had started to help; the hallucinations were quieter that day than they had been in a week, and the only explanation was the medication Julian had been giving him. He didn’t want them to come back. So he ignored the voices telling him to do otherwise, crept into the living room and took the hypospray. 

And nothing bad happened. 

He sat up all night twitching, waiting to be knocked out or for chemicals to start burning in his veins, but nothing happened. 

The voices were lying.  _ Tain  _ was lying. 

He cannot trust the ghost of his father. 

He knew already that listening to the opinions of a hallucination was inadvisable, of course, but it was so much easier to cope with seeing things when he agreed with the things they were saying.

Now, he has to fight them. 

Literature bridges the gap between himself and Julian. He can talk about Hamlet; he’s focused completely on it in the past few days, blocking out the anxious thoughts and the hallucinations. He talks about literature so he doesn’t have to talk about the rest of it. 

And Julian listens, and argues back. A bit too gently for a Cardassian palate, but he argues. And he smiles. Light creeps back into the soft, darkened eyes. It might be worth being sane again, just to see the beautiful sight of Julian coming back to life. 

_ Did I do this? _ He wonders. _ Did I do something to hurt him so terribly that just having lunch with him is an achievement in his eyes? _

_ “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve hurt him.”  _

_ But every time, I hope it’s the last.  _

Every time, he loathes himself a little more. 

He doesn’t like being on the promenade any more now than he used to. It’s too bright, too full of people. He’d rather eat in his shop or in Julian’s quarters, but he can’t possibly stay there any longer. It isn’t fair on Julian to have Garak lurking around being miserable - sleeping in his  _ bed _ , no less - when he’s working so hard on the war and in the infirmary. 

“Anyway, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were in a very tricky position,” Julian says. “All they knew was that Hamlet was going through a bad time. When the king asked them to keep an eye on him, they had no idea he was a murderer. Of course it made sense for Hamlet not to trust them, but it had to be difficult for them to understand why, when they were innocent of any actual conspiracy.”

Garak sips his tea while he thinks. Perhaps Julian gave him Hamlet in the first place because he saw the similarities too? No, that had been before the...episode. Perhaps he simply thought Garak would enjoy the assassinations.

“And if they were really Hamlet’s friends,” Julian adds, “they’d forgive him for being a bit rude, and still be there for him when he needed them.” 

“That is a very human sentiment,” Garak says, watching him cautiously for any sign of deception or rejection. He seems genuine. 

He always seems genuine. 

“It’s a very human play,” Julian says, with that infallible human logic. 

Garak gestures into the air as though that has made his point for him, 

“And there it is: the tragic flaw. You said all Shakespeare’s tragic plays had a flaw?” 

“I said the  _ heroes  _ had a tragic flaw.” 

“The human insistence on believing in heroes is a flaw in itself.” 

That irritates Julian, as he intended it to. “No, that’s not the point at all. The  _ point  _ of tragedies is that the hero has a flaw that leads to their downfall!”

“What do you think Hamlet’s flaw is, then?” Garak asks, rather more accusatory than he intended. “His inability to act? His paranoia? His madness?”

Julian looks at him then, and sees more of him than Garak would like. He shouldn’t have said that. 

“Perhaps his unwavering pessimism,” Julian offers. 

“How could he not be pessimistic? His father was assassinated! He is beset on all sides by chaos and conspiracy. No-one truly seems to care for him or understand him.” 

“Gertrude does,” Julian says, in a level voice. “But he drives her away. And what about Horatio? Who if you’ll recall, loves Hamlet so dearly that he’s ready to drink poison so that they can die together.”

“I did find that a touch dramatic,” Garak says. He feels like he’s been scolded. 

“You’ve never loved someone enough that you’d rather die with them than live on alone?” Julian asks. His voice is still level, his soft eyes filled with something behind them that for once, Garak is unable to easily read.

“That’s not the Cardassian way,” he weakly offers. He doesn’t want to think about the very real possibility that Julian Bashir will be killed in this war, and he will have to live on in a universe that no longer contains him. 

Julian raises his eyebrows. “I thought you were all about sacrifice.” 

“Where did you get that idea?” 

“Perhaps from the behemoth of a novel you gave me, insisting it was the greatest work of Cardassian literature ever written, which was all about Cardassians sacrificing their wants and needs for the good of the state, and happened to be called  _ The Never-Ending Sacrifice? _ ” 

“But Cardassians value sacrifice with a  _ purpose _ . Simply killing oneself to join a loved one in death is not as purposeful a sacrifice as, say, not loving them at all.” 

“In what world is  _ not  _ loving someone a sacrifice?” Julian asks. He’s indignant, almost angry. 

“Cardassia,” Garak simply says. 

He knew a man who loved a woman and then decided not to. A man who had a son and decided not to love him, either, because in his world, love was nothing more than a weakness to be used as leverage by one’s enemies.

He knew men who fell painfully, bitterly in love with their friends and never breathed a word.

He knew soldiers who died never once knowing the touch of another man, because they were too afraid of tainting their family’s name. 

“This isn’t Cardassia,” Julian says, as though that fact has not been a painfully obvious part of Garak’s life for several years now. 

“No,” Garak says, and adjusts the position of his teacup on the tray  _ just so _ , in order to avoid looking at Julian. “No, it is not.” 

Heavy footsteps. A security team sprints past and he tightens his fist around his knife out of instinct. 

_ “Here they come.”  _

_ “Watching you.” _

_ “Coming for you.”  _

They’re not coming for him. He forces himself to relax, though not successfully enough to hide his reaction from Bashir, who watches him cautiously when he looks up from his food. 

“You alright?” he asks. 

“Fine,” Garak quickly says, hoping to dismiss the very notion that he wouldn’t be as soon as possible. 

That’s always been his instinct. Never show weakness, never be vulnerable. But Julian worries. And he might be the only person to whom Garak would ever admit not being alright - who wouldn’t betray that information to anyone who could use it against him. 

“Julian.” 

He looks up, surprised. Garak very rarely uses Julian’s name in person. It feels like a privilege he shouldn’t be given. He chooses his words carefully, hating the feeling of having to expose himself like this, to actually  _ talk  _ about the miserable, rancid mould that has grown inside his head. 

“Doctor, I…” 

_ “Sisko to Bashir. My office, doctor. Now.”  _

Garak can’t work out whether he’s grateful or furious when Julian leaps up with an apologetic look. 

“On my way, Captain. I’m sorry, Garak. Um- would you like to have dinner later instead?” 

Julian is touching his shoulder. Not too lightly, not too firmly, just resting there. Warmth pools in his arm from it. Garak can barely comprehend the doctor’s words when he’s touching him like that. 

“Yes. I would like that,” Garak says, and Julian gives a brilliant smile before he sprints out of view. 

Instantly, he feels less safe. It’s ridiculous how completely his sense of security on this station is linked to the kindness of one man. If the Chief Medical Officer here had been anyone other than Julian Bashir, he would have spent the last two weeks in a holding cell and completely lost his mind. 

_ "Weak."  _

Julian makes him feel so weak in so many ways that he doesn’t know where to start.

_"Weak."_

There is the shameful, unspeakable attraction he feels to the doctor’s soft voice, his hands, his delicate face; a weakness he has tried and failed to rid himself of so many times that he’s resigned himself to living with it in misery. 

There is the feeling of safety Julian exudes. He is completely and utterly devoted to his duty of care above everything else- and above simply being a doctor, even. He just cares. 

_ "Weak." _

And there  is the simple fact that Julian is, psychologically, stronger than him. He was incarcerated by the Dominion for almost as long as Garak was, and he didn’t lose his mind. He became withdrawn and snappy and hollow-eyed, yes, but he didn’t break. How must Garak look to him? Garak, who has imprisoned and tortured others for decades, and cannot survive the same thing being done to him without shattering?

_**"Weak."** _

All of these things make Julian feel like a sanctuary. Even in his own head, in his own hallucinations, he hasn’t sullied that image by picturing him as anything other than a friend. He thinks only of a hand in his hair or on his elbow. Something gentle and kind but ultimately ambiguous. 

As though that would make things any better, if Julian ever found out what Garak thought about him. 

_ Does  _ he know? Is he tolerating that immovable facet of their friendship the same way he tolerates Garak’s other flaws? 

_ “It’s not as though you’ve been subtle.”  _

He leaves the table in the hope he can leave Tain’s voice there too. If there’s a security risk on the station, he’d rather be in his shop where he can defend himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a hint of plot, some pining, some angst.


	14. Small Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange occurrence in Sisko's office; comfort after a nightmare.

Ops is in chaos. The senior staff seem to all be in Sisko’s office, with half the security team standing guard outside. 

“Wait, doctor.” Odo steps out of the office before he’s allowed in. “You’ll need to complete a blood screening.” 

“What? What’s happened?” 

“Now, doctor.” 

Julian fumbled with the blood extractor in his medkit and took a sample from his bicep, then handed the tube to Odo for inspection. 

“Alright.” 

He followed Odo into the office, growing more alarmed by the second, wondering what had happened, if someone had been killed-

Dax? Miles? 

Something smoulders in a nasty-smelling pile on the floor a few feet from the door, and a frazzled Starfleet security officer hovers next to it. Dax crouches next to him, scanning the substance.

“Julian.” She stands up and offers him a look at her tricorder. 

“Is that-?”

“That is what’s left of a Founder,” Odo gravely says. “An alert was set off at the captain’s desk by Ensign Simmons, and when the security team arrived he revealed himself to be a Founder in an attempt to escape.” 

“The desk?” 

Miles pops up from behind it.

“There’s a button just under the desk. Special alarm in case of emergency. The Founder must’ve pressed it. Don’t know how they could’ve done it by accident, though. There’s no drawers here, and I specifically installed it so you couldn’t just knock it with your knee.” 

“You think it was deliberate? And this is a diversion?” Sisko says. 

They’re nowhere near ready to fight off a Dominion assault, let alone one coming from the inside. 

“I mean, it’s possible. I only put it in three months ago, and only you, me and Odo are supposed to know about it.” 

“What about the real Simmons?” Sisko asks.

“I’m on my way to search his quarters now,” Odo says. “Though I wouldn’t hold out much hope for his safety. Major?” 

She nods and follows him out of the office with a glance at Julian. Her initial hostility to Garak after the rescue faded into awkwardness after the night he properly broke down, and she saw it. She hasn’t mentioned the situation since, nor has she spoken to Julian for more than a few passing words. 

He’s glad Odo isn’t there to see them collect samples from the unpleasant pile of incinerated Founder. So little is known about them that Starfleet Medical are always pushing for whatever they can find. 

It worries him sometimes; there isn’t much to be said of the ethics involved in packaging up parts of a corpse and mailing them to a lab. But this is war - a war the Founders started. He’s learned a lot about how ethics seem to go out the window when the people throwing them away think they’re doing so for the right reasons. 

He tells Garak about it over dinner. At first he wasn’t sure if he’d even come back, but when Julian returned from the lab he was sitting on the sofa, reading, and he looked up at Julian with a soft smile that Julian has committed to memory. 

He still seems quiet and withdrawn, but it’s a vast improvement from laying in bed in utter silence. 

“It looks like Simmons never left Starfleet Academy. There’s no evidence of a human actually living in the quarters he was assigned. The Founder must have replaced him for the entirety of his posting here.” 

That unsettles him, too. He knows how it feels to be replaced, but to be _killed_ and have no-one notice? 

“Odd that he got caught so quickly,” Garak thoughtfully says. “You’d think a creature like that would make a better spy.” 

“He set off the alarm under Sisko’s desk. Miles is still scratching his head over it.”

“Because it’s impossible to set off by accident,” Garak casually says. 

Julian furrows his brow. Miles said only he, Sisko and Odo knew about that alarm. 

“How did you know?” He asks, and it looks like Garak is asking himself the same thing. 

“It’s my job to know things people don’t want known,” he quietly says. It’s not like he’s talking to Julian, though, but repeating something he’s heard. 

Julian has heard it too. 

The video. 

Garak is motionless, spoon drooping in his hand, staring off to the left with his eyes narrowed in the way one does when trying to remember something. Reluctant to put him off by asking if he’s alright, Julian lets him think for a while. 

A while lasts a little too long, though. 

“Garak.”

He blinks and his spoon clinks in his bowl. “My apologies. I drifted. I thought I had something...but it slipped away again. I’ve spoken to Odo,” he suddenly changes the subject. “Ensign Simmons’ quarters are likely to remain unoccupied for the foreseeable future.”

“Well, probably. With the war going the way it is, we’re running out of officers to fill the station with.” 

“Hmm.” Garak pushes his spoon around the bowl, making a small scraping noise. “Then it will no longer be necessary for me to impose upon you.” 

Oh. 

He shouldn’t feel disappointed, he shouldn’t. Garak is staying here as his patient first. It’s a good sign that he wants to be independent. But that doesn’t mean he’s actually ready to be on his own again. 

Julian isn’t ready to be on his own again. 

“Um- you don’t have to do anything until you’re sure you’re ready,” he carefully says. Just because _he’s_ irrationally attached to the idea of having Garak here, where he can see him and talk to him and look after him, that doesn’t mean he has a right to guilt Garak into staying if he wants his own space again. 

“Julian. I’ve been sleeping in your bed for two weeks. That is more than enough time to get a grip on reality.” 

“You don’t have to force yourself to do things because you think you should be recovered by now. It can take months to get over-”

 _“This kind of thing,_ yes, I’m aware,” Garak cuts him off. 

Julian sighs. How to word this without injuring his already-injured pride? “I won’t feel comfortable kicking you out until I’m sure you’re really going to be alright by yourself. It’s not that I don’t trust you, or that I think you’re going to fall apart at any minute. I just...worry.”

He expects Garak to argue, to insist he needs time to himself. He must be desperate for his own space by now. But the look Julian gets is one of quiet shock. 

“It...will take some time for all the evidence from Simmons’ quarters to be processed, of course,” he continues in an uncertain tone. “Odo will want to do a thorough search to make sure the Founder didn’t leave behind any unpleasant surprises.” 

“At least a week, surely.” Julian plucks the number from the air, and Garak almost certainly knows it, but he just nods. 

“Oh, at least,” Garak quickly agrees. 

_He wants to stay,_ Julian realises. _He’s just allergic to being honest._

A warm, giddy sort of feeling tightens his chest, and he smiles at Garak without really meaning to. Garak smiles back. 

***

Bright, scalding white. 

Ice on a metal floor. 

_“There’s something you don’t know.”_

The Jem’Hadar watch blankly. The Vorta tilts her head. 

“Something the Federation doesn’t want you to know.” 

_Something-_

_Something they don’t want you to know._

Drops of blood drying on the wall - the wall that moves, slowly, slowly creeping closer no matter how hard he tries to push it back. 

_Something they don’t-_

The ceiling cracks; dust floats down around him from the groaning wounds.

_They don’t want you to know._

The walls move with the sound of concrete scraping metal. His hands graze on the rough surface. 

He can’t stop it. 

He can’t breathe.

 _They don’t want you._

“It’s not real,” he tries to tell himself. He has to talk himself out of the panic attack before it happens. “Calm down. This is completely unrealistic. It’s not happening.” 

The walls are falling. 

He’s on the edge of remembering something important. He said something to someone, and it wasn’t true, and he needs to know _what._

_They don’t want you._

He can’t- 

“Garak!” 

Julian. 

He’s there in the hot dark, standing over him, touching his shoulder. Garak jerks upright and expects to hit a white concrete wall, but there’s nothing there. 

Julian, his safe haven, the only thing he can be sure is real, leans back to give him space. 

“It’s fine,” he tries to say. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” Talking to himself is often the only thing he can do to get through episodes of anxiety. “Did I disturb you?” 

“You were talking in your sleep,” Julian says. 

“Ah.” 

He sits up properly and pushes off the blankets that tangled around him. Dust falls from cracks in the ceiling. He watches it float down in sheets, aware that it isn’t real. He was on the edge of remembering something so important, but it’s gone, and all that’s left is an overwhelming feeling of terror that doesn’t make any sense. 

Julian is still there, hovering. “Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly.” He’s only warding off the panic because Julian is here. Or rather, Julian is warding off his panic just by being there. “I apologise for disturbing you.” 

He hunches up on himself and shifts closer to the headboard, trying to make the small room feel bigger. 

The bed sinks beside him and the scent of Julian’s shampoo wafts across to him. A warm hand touches his shoulder and his temple, checking his pulse. Julian only touches him like this when he’s falling apart. 

_Pull yourself together. It’s not that cramped in here, and even if it was, you are far too old to be this afraid of it. Nothing bad is going to happen. The walls aren’t going to cave in. Julian is here._

He has to keep talking to himself inside his head; doing it out loud would give Julian the wrong idea. He’s woken from worse nightmares than this dozens of times in his life. Why has this suddenly become so much harder to control? 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

Julian lets go of his shoulder and draws his hand back from his temple. Garak’s skin tingles almost as soon as the touch is taken away, left to fight against the rising ride of his stupid, irrational fear without anything to ground him. He wants it so badly that he can’t think of anything else. 

_It’s fine. Julian is here. Nothing bad is going to happen._

He can’t stop shaking. 

Maybe he should just ask. 

_Ask him to touch you? How pathetic is that?_

Or just touch him, then. He’s right there. It wouldn’t be absurd to touch his shoulder. Not his hand, that’s far too forward, far too intimate, far too close to the truth. 

_He won’t want you to stay with him if you get clingy._

Paralysed with indecision, his skin burns - a horrible itching, crawling feeling like his scales are all shedding at once and he can’t pick them off. He needs to _do_ something. He’s about to get up and start pacing like a lunatic when Julian’s hand lands gently on his forearm. 

The relief is immediate. 

A soothing calm radiates across his arm where Julian’s hand rests; sparks of contentment where Julian rubs his thumb back and forth across the exposed skin where Garak's sleeve is rolled up. 

He’s terrified to look at Julian in case his face betrays his emotional state. But he can’t _not_ look when Julian is so close to him, when he’s touching him like that. Garak hasn’t been this neurotic about touching someone since he was an adolescent teetering on this same edge with one of his classmates. 

He turns his head a fraction, just so he can see Julian’s face. 

Julian smiles gently at him. His ever-present concern darts back behind his eyes; he’s trying to hide it from Garak. The shadows surrounding them make him seem closer, softer at the edges. The small touches of light from the wall panels shine off his hair, his cheekbones, the edge of his collarbone where it peeks out from beneath his pyjama shirt. 

_Does he know what he’s doing, sitting in bed with me in the dark, touching my skin?_

Maybe he does, and he’s being kind by offering scraps of affection he doesn’t want to give in full. Or maybe he doesn’t - but Julian isn’t as naive as he once was. 

Julian’s hand shifts and Garak can’t stop himself looking at him again, and the panic must have shown in his face because Julian rubs his shoulder instead, then smoothes his hand across his back. Up and down over his shoulderblades, back and forth in warm, soothing waves with the gentle sound of skin rustling fabric. 

He should say something. It’s appalling manners to sit in silence like this. But he can’t break it. 

What could he possibly say that wouldn’t ruin this? 

His eyes drift closed and he focuses on the smell of Julian’s shampoo, and the sensation of his hand on his back. The pressure in his chest slowly lessens. He can breathe without feeling like he’s fighting against a crushing weight on his ribs. 

He’s so tired. He’s spent most of the last two months lying on the floor or in Julian’s bed. Why is he so tired? 

“Are you going to be alright?” 

Julian’s hand rests on his upper arm for a moment. He’s going to let go. Everything in Garak viscerally rejects the idea, but he’s been given more tonight than he ever thought he would get in a lifetime. He can’t ask _more_ of Julian. 

“Yes, I believe so. Thank you.” 

He doesn’t know how to express gratitude for this; for being touched in a way no-one has touched him for so long, not by someone who cared, someone who actually understood him. 

“Any time,” Julian says, like he actually means it. His hand slips away. “Goodnight, Garak.”

“Goodnight, Julian,” Garak murmurs, barely a whisper, and then Julian is gone again. 

His back and shoulder tingle with warmth. He doesn’t go back to sleep; he just lies there, staring at the smooth ceiling, and runs his thumb along the place on his forearm where Julian’s skin touched his. 

He is _hopelessly_ lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the barest hint of plot with a Huge serving of pining. it's about the GENTLE. TOUCHES.


	15. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian struggles to keep his feelings in check; Garak watches the recording.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The talented [zaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaan/pseuds/zaan) has written a fic inspired by A Small Write Room! I am beyond flattered and 100% consider it 'canon'. 
> 
> Give [A Difference of Opinion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954893) some love!

Julian feels oddly warm for the rest of the night after helping Garak. His hand tingles from running it back and forth over the slightly rough fabric of his shirt, and the rest of him feels different somehow, like there’s a need he’s been neglecting that he only just fulfilled. 

Then in the morning Garak passes him coming out of the bathroom and touches the small of Julian’s back as he slides past and he feels the weight of his hand there long after it’s gone, while he watches Garak examine each of his plants in turn. 

(He does this every morning before he eats. Julian finds it wonderful.) 

Julian is even optimistic enough to ask to share lunch two days in a row, then three, then four, and he lets his hand rest on Garak’s shoulder for a good few seconds when they pause in the Replimat queue. His hand lingers on the table and Julian knows taking that would be crossing a line, but he pats Garak’s forearm when he thinks of an especially good point in their argument. 

They’ve always been quite touchy with each other; Garak in particular has often crossed the border of what Julian usually considers an ordinary level of physical contact between friends. He never minded, though. 

But now every brush of hands seems more important than the last. Now he can feel warmth when he sees Garak relax and his expression brighten, just at Julian’s touch. 

He has his friend back. 

His  _ friend,  _ who he is trying not to fall deeper in love with, but it isn’t really working, because Garak is behaving more like himself again, with the dramatics and sweeping gestures and long-winded sentences that Julian can never quite predict the endings of when he starts them. 

He loves seeing him in the morning and having breakfast with him, and watching him carefully examine each leaf and petal each of his houseplants. Knowing that Garak is there when he goes to bed - and that he’s more or less alright - makes it easier for Julian to sleep. And it’s reassuring to be able to hand him his medication and see him take it. 

Julian still worries about him; he gets distracted sometimes and misses things Julian says, or stares off into the distance and has to be nudged back into the present. But he’s getting better. 

***

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Odo asks, narrowing his eyes at Garak. 

Garak sighs. “It’s only a video, Constable. What harm can it possibly do? The worst that will happen is that I won’t remember anything.” 

He’s desperate to remember. There’s something constantly pressing at the periphery of his memory, and the only thing he can think to do in order to trigger the memory he needs is to see the recording that Odo is now withholding. 

“Have you spoken to Dr Bashir about this?” 

“I hardly think that’s necessary.” 

It’s difficult to win a staring contest with someone who doesn’t technically need to blink, but Odo sighs anyway. 

“Very well.” Odo sighs and inputs a command into his console. Out comes a red isolinear rod, which he hands to Garak. “I would advise you to discuss this with Dr Bashir, but knowing you, I doubt you will.” 

Garak smiles at him to cover up the discontent he finds himself experiencing at the thought of worrying Julian. 

“Has any further progress been made in decrypting the rest of the files from the facility?”

“Many of them were corrupted beyond repair. You’d have to speak to Chief O’Brien, it’s more his area than mine.” 

“I shall. Perhaps I can be of some assistance. Complex data retrieval is one of my hobbies.” 

“I’m sure it is,” Odo dryly says. “Ensign Simmons’ quarters are clear, by the way.” 

“Are they?” Garak says. “Well, I shall pass the news along to Dr Bashir. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.” 

Odo gives him one of those calculating looks. 

“I’m sure he will.” He sounds even less convinced than Garak. 

“Good afternoon, then, Constable.” 

Odo nods sharply. “Garak.” 

He fiddles with the datarod for most of the day. He obviously can’t watch it in his shop while customers can come in and out, and he can’t return to Julian’s quarters in case he comes back. So he waits, turning the rod over and over in his hands, until artificial night falls on the promenade and he can lock up. 

Then he slots the rod into the computer. 

_ “There’s something you don’t know. Something the Federation don’t want you to know.”  _

_ “And they just so happened to tell you?” _

_ “It’s my job to know things people don’t want known.”  _

_ “Not anymore.”  _

_ “Old habits. I want something in return.”  _

_ “Now you know that’s not how this works.”  _

_ “Oh, but this is worth it, and you can’t afford to wait any longer.”  _

_ “And why is that?”  _

_ “Not until you guarantee me this.”  _

_ “That rather depends on what you want. Bearing in mind, of course, that the Dominion does not cede to the demands of its prisoners.” _

He plays it again. 

_ “Something the Federation doesn’t want you to know.”  _

_ “I want something in return.”  _

_ “You can’t afford to wait any longer.”  _

_ “The Dominion does not cede to the demands of its prisoners.” _

Again. 

And again. 

And  _ again.  _

It’s like watching a dream he once had, rather than a memory. He knows how the floor felt, he knows how it felt to be manic and tired and furious, but he can’t remember saying any of this. 

_ “Something the Federation doesn’t want you to know.”  _

_ “I want something in return.”  _

_ “You can’t afford to wait any longer.”  _

_ “Something the Federation doesn’t want you to know.”  _

What? 

He plays it over and over, waiting for the connection to form in his mind, waiting for the subsequent memory to bleed through, waiting to remember what horrible, stupid thing he did to spare his own skin this time. 

But he can’t remember. 

Why? 

Is it some inept defence mechanism, protecting his mind from accepting that it has broken, protecting him from having to deal with the reality of giving aid to the Dominion?

Something sparked the other day. A Founder caught on the station. The alarm under Sisko’s desk. He knew about that; he likes to dig through the Chief of Operations’ reports when no-one’s looking. 

_ “It’s my job to know things people don’t want known.”  _

He despises the madman he sees on the floor. 

In his mind he catches glimpses of the smooth face of a Founder, the twisted neck of a kanar bottle. He imagines what he would ask for if he were sane and willing to give up information. If he had something to say, he’d try to gain access to the person with the highest authority he could. And if he had something to say of which he was deeply ashamed, the kanar would not be an unreasonable demand to make either. 

Then, something else glints in the edge of his memory. 

Shards of a broken bottle.

A blade of glass drawn across someone’s throat. 

Blood. 

Just flashes, scents of memories that barely crystallise before they’re snatched away again. 

He tries to put himself back into the memory like he would with any other, but it doesn’t work. It’s like trying to remember something that happened when he was an infant, before his memory properly developed, and all he can recall are snippets of textures and images that he might be imagining as much as remembering. 

He plays the recording again.

And again. 

And again. 

***

The doors hiss open much later than Julian expected. 

“Hello,” he looks up from the padds he’s been working on to see Garak looking somewhat distracted. “I was about to send a search party. Late one at the shop?” 

“Something like that,” Garak absently says. “Might I sit with you?” 

“Of course.” 

Julian moves the stack of padds beside him onto the table and shifts up to give Garak space on the sofa. He sits close. Not uncomfortably so, but close enough to touch without moving very far.  Garak is very still, his hands tightly clasping his knees. He doesn’t need the bandage around his hand anymore; the bones have knitted back together properly and he’s regained almost full use of it. 

“What’s all this?” he asks.

“Inventory of the latest shipment of medical supplies. Deep Space Nine gets quite high priority since we’re so close to the front lines, but there still isn’t enough to go around. I’m working out a rationing system.” 

He’s been shuffling around the numbers in his head for hours now. 

Garak hums. “Isn’t there someone less overworked who could do this?” 

“I’m the Chief Medical Officer. Who else is going to do it?”

“Hm. I’m sure it has nothing to do with your persistent belief that if you take a minute to rest, people will die and it will be your fault.” 

Julian sighs. He looks at Garak, and Garak looks at him. Garak  _ sees  _ him. 

“Being an augment means I have a responsibility to work harder,” Julian says. He expects Garak to argue, but he doesn’t. 

“You also have a responsibility to keep yourself from burning out, or you’ll be no good to anyone.” 

“I don’t get tired nearly as quickly as ordinary humans do.” 

“Neither do Cardassians. But we still get tired.” 

Julian huffs a laugh, not because it’s funny but because he  _ is  _ tired, but he can’t sleep because he feels like he shouldn’t, because he’s not reached the point of sheer exhaustion yet. Garak understands. Cardassians know a thing or two about duty. 

He’s so tired. 

He can tell from how tense Garak is (though pretending not to be) that he’s anxious about something. And then he rolls up his sleeves. Garak never has his sleeves rolled up; it's incongruous with his image, and he’s too cold on the station for that. 

But the other night he did, probably by mistake, and Julian touched his skin.

Sometimes he admires the man’s stubbornness, and sometimes it truly worries him. It would be so easy for Garak to just  _ ask  _ for what he wants, but he doesn’t. Maybe he doesn’t know how. He just leaves hints and waits for Julian to work them out. 

Hoping he’s not entirely misjudged, Julian shifts closer so their thighs are pressed together and reaches out to touch his exposed forearm. Garak goes tense with surprise at first, but then he sighs, and the rigidity slowly flows out of him as Julian rubs his arm. The scales there are cool and dry, and he can feel muscles and tendons shifting and loosening beneath. 

_ This isn’t as platonic as I thought it would be, _ he realises, far too late. He’s never stroked Miles’ arm - or any part of him, mind you. 

But Garak is just...different. 

He thought he could keep a hold on his crush until Garak was doing better - indefinitely, if he had to. But apparently he was mistaken, because he wants to keep doing this for as long as Garak will let him. It’s soothing to be able to lean against him, to physically feel Garak’s solid presence beside him when he’s so emotionally distant. 

Then again, the look on his face when Julian’s fingers brush against the thin skin of his inner wrist is anything but distant. His eyes are wide, and just like the other night, he hasn’t spoken a word since Julian first touched him. 

And he hasn’t pulled back. 

His hand is right there. Attached to his wrist, in fact, which Julian has already touched while pretending to be absent-minded. He can’t just- it isn’t fair to do it now. Frankly, he’s too scared to open any kind of conversation about this that will result in Garak pulling away from him. 

Maybe that’s why Garak hasn’t opened that door either, in all the years they’ve been friends, even when it’s been quite obvious what he was thinking. 

_ Don’t address it directly; _ that’s the key with Garak. 

So he settles on taking Garak’s left hand very gently in both of his. 

“Has your hand healed alright?” He asks, already knowing the answer - and knowing that Garak knows, too - and he can  _ feel  _ the sharp intake of breath beside him as he turns Garak’s hand palm up. He offers no resistance. 

“It’s...a little stiff, sometimes,” Garak says, his voice quiet and strained, like he’s trying to keep it level. “Especially when the station gets cold at night.” 

Julian massages some warmth back into his fingers, bends them gently to relieve the stiffness in a facsimile of physical therapy. (The way he strokes his thumb across the palm of Garak’s hand is not physical therapy by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn’t seem to mind.) 

A long, winding silence where time seems to stretch and compress. 

“Did something happen today?” Julian asks. 

Garak sighs and finally pulls back his hand, but makes no move to shift away from Julian. They’re still pressed together from shoulder to thigh on a sofa wide enough that it can only be read as a deliberate choice. 

“I witnessed the evidence of my betrayal,” Garak eventually says. Julian squints at him. “The recording, doctor.” 

“What? Who showed you that?”

“Calm yourself, it wasn’t forced upon me. I requested that Odo provide me with the file, and he did.”

“Why would you-?” He'd like to say that he can't believe Garak would do something so self-destructive just when he's getting better again, but he absolutely can believe that. 

“Wouldn’t you want to know, if you were in my place?" Garak asks. "Not that you ever would be, of course.” 

“How do you know? Anything could happen in this war." 

“The Dominion held you for four weeks and you didn’t betray any Federation secrets to them.”

“That wasn’t the same thing at all. It was a miserable bloody place, yes, but I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t tortured. The Jem’Hadar barely paid any attention to me unless I did something that ticked them off. I have no idea how I would have coped with what happened to you.”

Garak just shakes his head. He’s ashamed, Julian realises. Deeply and bitterly ashamed. 

“Have you remembered anything more?” Julian asks. He hopes not, frankly. Garak doesn't need any more bad memories. 

“Nothing useful.”

“You never know. Chances are, the memory is in there, it’s just being blocked as a kind of defence mechanism. That’s a normal reaction to trauma.” 

Garak scoffs and gets to his feet. Julian grabs his arm before he can walk away. He’s tense again. 

“You could talk to someone about this,” Julian says. “Dr Telnorri has a lot of experience.” 

“Thank you for the suggestion, doctor, but there is nothing a human counsellor can do for me. I’ll be quite alright. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have an early night.” 

He picks up the hypospray Julian usually leaves on the table in the evenings and paces into the bedroom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands, gentle touches, Garak being self-destructive - all my favourite things.


	16. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak becomes obsessed with finding the other half of the video.

Another nightmare. 

This time Garak was left alone on the station; the Federation and the Bajorans alike had abandoned it. (Abandoned him, just like the Cardassians. Just like his father.) The corridors were empty, shrinking smaller and smaller and the Dominion were coming. 

Julian is asleep when he creeps into the living room, limbs sprawling across the bed.

He touched Garak’s hand last night. Not a brush or a quick squeeze, but gentle caresses in the evening while they sat together. Did he know what it meant? Does he know what Garak feels for him? Was that his idea of kindness - giving him a piece of something he could never have? 

He can’t work it out. Even remembering the feeling of Julian’s skin on his, he can’t be sure it wasn’t a dream. 

He steals out into the corridor to return to his shop. He watches the recording again. Still, no memory sparks in his mind. 

He watches the recording again. 

Again. 

Again. 

He listens to the words. He pictures the room as though he was still there. 

He watches the recording again. 

The lights on the promenade rise to the day setting, and flow through the window in the shop door. 

He watches the recording again. 

Nothing. 

He remembers nothing. 

“Computer, location of Chief O’Brien.” 

_ “Chief O’Brien is located in Ops.”  _

“Thank you,” he says out of instinct. 

O’Brien is drinking his usual coffee and poking at a console, looking about as tired and overworked as usual. He looks up at Garak with a vague expression of surprise.

“Good morning, Chief.” 

“Alright, Garak?”

He inclines his head. “I understand there has been some difficulty in decrypting some of the files from the Dominion facility. The encryption matrices the Jem’Hadar use have some similarities to common Cardassian practices. Might you benefit from a fresh pair of eyes?”

“Oh, uh. Sure. Most of it’s stuck behind corrupted firewalls. We haven’t had any luck breaking them down.” 

He’s surprised by the lack of resistance. He’d prepared several arguments in the turbolift up to Ops. Starfleet don’t trust him. The Chief might have warmed up to him over the years, but he didn’t think he could rely on that, even after demonstrating his competence while they served together on the  _ Defiant _ . 

“There, see?” O’Brien points out the problem on the console. Garak takes a moment or so to sink back into the correct mindset for working with coding before scanning the layout he’s looking at. 

“Hm.” He pokes around a bit, not necessarily with the intention of getting anywhere but just to see where it takes him and what the defences are like. He comes up against a corrupted string that prevents him from going any further and hums thoughtfully. 

“It’s probably a lost cause,” O’Brien says, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” 

“Well, that may be so, but I haven’t much else to do. Would you mind if I kept at it?”

“No, you’re welcome to it. If anyone’s gonna get through this mess, it’s probably you.” 

Garak blinks at him, not entirely sure what he’s heard. O’Brien does not elaborate on what Garak eventually realises is a compliment, and merely goes on to grant him access to this part of the station’s memory core from the console in his shop. 

“You, uh, doing alright?” O’Brien asks, before Garak leaves. 

This is not one of the discussion points he prepared in the turbolift. People other than Julian do not ask him whether he is alright, and he’s not sure how much the other DS9 crew know about his recent disasters. 

“Quite alright, thank you,” he says. 

O’Brien nods. “Good. Good, ‘cause Julian was looking pretty worried for a minute there. You know what he’s like. Medical emergency and everything else goes out the window.” 

“Yes, he’s...”  _ Wonderful? Brilliant? Far too good a person for me to keep letting him touch me without telling him what it means? _ “Very dedicated.” 

“He was pretty broken up, you know. When you were gone.” 

Garak frowns at him, not entirely sure what to do when presented with that information. If it’s true, why is O’Brien telling him?

“Oh, yeah,” O’Brien casually continues. “Moped around for weeks. Now you’re back, though, haven’t seen him this perky in a while.” 

“I see,” he says. He doesn’t. He’s frantically trying to compute whether what O’Brien is saying is even possible. 

“He’s a good man,” O’Brien says. 

“He is.”

“But don’t tell him I said that.” 

“I won’t breathe a word.” 

***

“Garak?” 

He’s working on his computer, the lights dimmed in the back of the shop, the ‘closed’ sign up. There’s a feverish kind of concentration on his face. He might also be muttering to himself. 

“Oh. Hello, doctor.” He looks up and blinks, seeming to come back to the real world. 

“You alright?”

Garak was gone early this morning. Not cause for concern in itself, but that combined with the urgent tapping on his console is somewhat troubling. 

“Yes, of course. I was just, ah- ordering some materials. Is it lunchtime already?” 

“Just about. Ready?” 

“Ah. Yes. Just a moment.” 

He’s getting distracted again. Julian thought he was doing better, but over lunch he seems impatient and fidgety, and spaces out when Julian talks for too long. 

“Garak?” 

“Hm.” 

He lowers his voice and leans forward a bit so no-one would overhear. 

“Have you taken the ilochlorodin this morning?” 

“Of course I have,” Garak dismissively says. “What kind of a question is that?” 

“Are you sure?” 

Garak scowls at him and at least seems to try to remember now. His expression shifts to one of contrition. 

“Ah. Perhaps not. I was distracted. No matter, I shall take it after lunch.” 

“Promise?”

“Yes, yes, I promise. In fact-” he stands abruptly and picks up his tray, his food barely touched. “I’ll do it now. Thank you for reminding me.” 

“Garak-?” 

“Good afternoon, doctor.” 

And he’s gone. 

What was all that about?

Maybe he’s just sick of Julian being in his space all the time. God, maybe he overstepped last night, touching his hand like that, and Garak’s uncomfortable being around him now. But he didn’t object. He seemed to want it, in fact. Maybe he’s embarrassed? 

Julian sighs and drops his head into his arms. 

Why is everything always so complicated? 

***

Strings of code dance before his eyes. He’s good at this; he always liked playing with computers. And Dominion computing customs aren’t as foreign as they appear on the surface. He and Chief O’Brien became very familiar with them when Starfleet took over that Jem’Hadar ship. 

He examines the corrupted parts, the encrypted parts, the decrypted parts. 

And he realises something. 

While he obviously can’t see the timecodes or IDs of the corrupted files to determine what they contain, he should be able to look at the other files and by a process of elimination, work out what’s missing. 

He skims through most of them, looking for things he doesn’t remember. He does not enjoy looking at himself naked and bleeding on the floor. It’s fascinating, in a sick kind of way, but far from pleasant. He’s also starting to hate the sound of his own voice. 

He remembers almost all of this. Perhaps a moment or two either side of being knocked out by a Jem’Hadar is blank in his mind, for obvious reasons, but the rest is there. He remembers the chair and the electricity, he remembers his ribs snapping and Korva asking the same questions over and over. 

He remembers Tain and Heret and the colour of his mother’s hair. 

The second half of the recording of him confessing something to Korva should be in the corrupted files, as should several hours worth of other footage that is unaccounted for, once he puts together a timeline of the other files of that small white cell. And what strikes him as odd is that he doesn’t remember any of those, either. Perhaps he would, if he accessed the files, but it’s an odd coincidence that all the files corrupted in the Dominion’s computer have also corrupted in his mind. 

He watches the first recording again. 

It’s actually the last one - the last thing he has any memory of, and the file with the most recent timecode that hasn’t been totally corrupted. 

And that’s odd, too. Videos don’t corrupt halfway through. That cut before he starts making his demands - that feels deliberate. It feels like something he might have organised in the Order, if he knew the footage was going to be found. 

So. The Dominion wanted Starfleet to know he’d told them  _ something. _ They just didn’t want them to know what. And it’s his duty to find out what it was. 

He dims the lights in his shop entirely - they’re starting to hurt his eyes, to make the edges of his vision turn white - and gets to work. 

***

The first night Garak comes home past 2600 hours, Julian tries not to worry. He’s not a child. He’s allowed to work late, if that’s what he wants to do. 

He barely meets Julian’s eyes when he comes in, tense and anxious and exhausted. He stops close to him while he makes some excuse about taking inventory or reorganising stock, and Julian rubs his shoulder. (Casually, he’d insist.) Garak closes his eyes and sighs at the contact, and drifts off into the bedroom once Julian hands him his ilochlorodin. Their hands brush over the hypospray. 

The second night, Julian allows himself to worry. It’s almost 0200 and he’s in bed staring at the ceiling when the doors hiss open.

“Garak?” 

“I didn’t realise the time,” he murmurs. He’s getting quiet again. It’s unbearable to watch him regress. “I’m sorry to disturb you, doctor.” 

“S’alright.” He rubs some of the sleep out of his eyes and squints at Garak. “Have you even eaten?” 

Garak looks away. “Oh, I wasn’t hungry. It must have slipped my mind.”

“Garak, what’s going on?” 

“Nothing is ‘going on’. I’m fine. I tend to lose myself in work, that’s all.” He steps close enough to the bunk for Julian to touch his shoulder. His fingers graze ice-cold skin. Garak’s pulse is racing. 

“You’re not fine,” Julian says, and rubs his back, feeling the texture of the cold scales exposed above his shirt. 

“I just need a little more time.”

That’s all he says before he slips away again. Time for what?

The third night, he waits until 0300, staring at the ceiling and growing more and more concerned, and gets up again. Garak left that morning before Julian woke up without having breakfast. 

It’s not healthy. Whatever is happening, it has to stop. 

The lights are dim in Garak’s shop, but he’s in there, working on the computer, and the doors open when Julian approaches. 

He recognises the muffled voices coming from the console immediately. 

_ “Oh, but this is worth it, and you can’t afford to wait any longer.”  _

_ “And why is that?”  _

_ “Not until you guarantee me this.”  _

_ “That rather depends on what you want. Bearing in mind, of course, that the Dominion does not cede to the demands of its prisoners.” _

Garak looks up at Julian and his face slackens in dread. 

“Is that what I think it is?” Julian asks. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I- nothing- I was just trying to, ah- what are you doing here? Am I not free to do as I please with my evenings?” 

“Garak, it’s 0300. Is this what you’ve been doing in here every night? Watching that damned video?” 

He looks away. “I’ve only watched it a- a- a few times, to- to try and jog my memory. And that didn’t work, it hasn’t worked yet, so ah- Chief O’Brien. He gave me access to the other files. I’m decrypting them. The corrupted ones, you see, they aren’t truly corrupted, that’s just what the Dominion wanted you to think so you wouldn’t try and get any further, so you wouldn’t find out what I said to them.” 

He’s shaking, stumbling over his words. He's barely even coherent. 

“You’ve watched more?” Julian says. Garak just shrugs and avoids eye contact. “Christ, Garak. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You need to sleep. You need to eat!”

“I’m fine! I just need a little more time, and I can do it. I can find the other half of the file. I know what they’ve done here. I just need time to unpick it. It’s all very simple, really.” 

“Then it can wait until tomorrow.” 

“No, I can do it now. I  _ need  _ to do it now.” 

“No, you don’t. Come on, we’re going to-” He tries to take Garak’s arm and tug him away from the console.

“Yes, I do!” Garak snaps, and pulls out of Julian’s grip. “It is my responsibility to find the mess I made and fix it before more people get hurt.” 

“Just forget it! It wasn’t your fault. For God’s sake- your mind has blocked it out for a reason. You have been through a serious trauma, and forcing yourself to relive it out of guilt is only going to make it harder for you to recover.”

_ “Trauma.” _ Garak sneers with a bitterness that slaps him in the face. “Trauma is what happens to people who are victims of something they didn’t deserve. I got what was coming to me, doctor. It’s been coming for a very long time. And I couldn’t take it.” 

The self-loathing in his voice is visceral.

“You didn’t  _ deserve  _ that. I can’t believe you’d say something like-  _ Christ _ , Garak,” he says again, absolutely clueless as to argue with a belief that is so fundamentally horrible. “You didn’t deserve what they did to you.” 

Garak ignores him. He leans on the console with both hands, staring blankly at the screen.

Julian is lost. The research he’s done over the last few weeks may have prepared him to identify symptoms, and he can objectively say to Garak that self-hatred is an ordinary, but irrational psychological reaction to what he’s been through, but that isn’t going to help. Medicalising the pain isn’t going to sterilise it into nonexistence. 

He doesn’t know what to do about it instead. 

“Please, just stop this. Show Miles what you’ve got and leave it alone. Get some rest.”

“No, no. I can do it. I just need more time. I can fix it, I can get through.” Julian rests a hand on his trembling arm. Garak doesn’t resist. “I can do this,” he insists. 

“I know you can _. _ But you can’t keep going like this.”

Garak just shakes his head. He won’t look at him. Julian pushes gently on his chest, and he steps back, expression blank. He lets Julian slide between him and the console and rub soothing lines up and down his arm. 

“You don’t understand. I have to do this. I- I  _ have  _ to.” His voice trembles, and he wipes at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m close, really, I just need to think for a minute, to clear my head.” 

He’s talking to himself as much as he is to Julian. 

“At least stop for tonight,” Julian says. Garak only meets his eyes when Julian touches his cheek very lightly. His skin is cold and rough. “Come home. Please.” 

Garak stares at him, and Julian realises what he’s said. 

Home. Not ‘my quarters’, or even ‘our quarters’. 

Home. 

And slowly, Garak nods, and lets Julian take him home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouch...
> 
> a Lot of emotions are going to boil over in the next one.


	17. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian tries to comfort Garak without letting his own feelings get in the way. It doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for brief mention of disordered eating

Julian holds onto Garak’s wrist for the whole walk back to his quarters. It’s warm, grounding. Makes him feel real. 

He can hear the video echoing in his head. He’s watched it enough times to memorise every frame, every word, every expression on his own bloodied face. 

He hates it. But he can’t stop watching it over and over in his head. And still, he remembers nothing. 

He was close with the corrupted files. He was getting somewhere before Julian came. He can’t quite remember where; all his thoughts are scattered and he can’t pick them all up before a new one falls out and he has to examine that, too. 

“Have you eaten?” Julian softly asks. 

The thought of it makes him nauseous. He used to enjoy food, as much as anyone could when it was replicated on a space station. Now it just feels like a chore. 

He doesn't deserve it.

“I can’t.” 

“Just a little. You're shaking.” 

_ “No.” _

Julian’s hand settles in just the right spot in the middle of his back, warm and soothing. 

But he doesn’t deserve comfort. He doesn’t deserve Julian. 

He pulls away and leaves Julian alone in the living room. There’s a routine, steps he can follow. Get undressed, get dressed in sleeping clothes, lie down, wish he was dead, fall asleep, wish he couldn’t dream, wake up, get dressed, and work on the decryption again. 

“Garak?” 

Julian’s voice is soft and worried. 

He realises he hasn’t made it very far in the routine. He stopped after removing his jacket and shoes. The air is cold ice and he can’t bring himself to move, even to put it on again. So he’s just standing by the bed, staring at a pile of clothes that should have been folded and organised but he can’t seem to force himself to do even that anymore, how _pathetic-_

“Hey, come on. Sit down.” 

Julian is there, he shouldn’t be there, he has more important things to do than coddle Garak every time he gets a bit upset. 

“I’m fine,” he says. “You were completely correct, of course, I’m just tired. I think I’ll go to bed now, if that’s alright with you. I’ll be fine.”

Julian doesn’t leave. He sits beside Garak on the bed and puts his arm around him. He’s close and warm, pressed against his right side with such gentle, caring attention. Garak wants so desperately just to turn and dissolve completely into Julian’s arms, but he can’t. It’s not right. 

He’s disgusting for using Julian like this, for forcing Julian to touch him and worry about him and give up his bed when he doesn’t know what it means. 

He’s disgusting for not telling Julian what he is. 

He’s disgusting and selfish and un-Cardassian, and every movement of Julian’s hand on his back makes him feel worse. The only thing he deserves is to be put back in that small white room with the visions and voices and left there to rot until he can take it without breaking. 

He doesn’t deserve this. 

“I lied to you,” Garak says. 

Julian frowns, but doesn’t seem surprised. “About what?” 

“Ensign Simmons’ quarters are free. They have been for days. I deliberately withheld this information from you.” 

Julian laughs softly. “Oh, Garak. I already know that.” Garak turns to look at him, blinking shocked tears out of his eyes. “Odo mentioned it. I wasn’t going to bring it up unless you did.” 

“I don’t understand.”

Julian sighs, and absently rubs Garak’s stiff, trembling shoulder while Garak stares at him. 

“Has it really not occurred to you that I might  _ want  _ you to stay?” he quietly asks. 

Garak pauses. “Well, yes. So you can supervise me.” 

“No, because I like having you here,” Julian says, like it’s obvious. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“You don’t know. You don’t understand what you’re saying,” Garak says, his voice wavering and cracking. Julian deserves to know. He’s being so kind and it isn’t fair to keep lying to him like this. 

“What is there to understand? You’re my friend. I care about you. I like having you around.”

“You wouldn’t, if you knew.” 

“Knew what?” 

“There’s something wrong with me, Julian. You act like it isn’t there, but it must be so obvious. Everyone else can see it. Everyone else knows that I should have been able to take it. But I didn’t, I couldn’t. I broke. I fell apart. I lost my mind over nothing.” 

“Garak, no-one thinks that except you. You fought them for so long, you were so brave.”

“I wasn’t  _ brave,” _ Garak snaps. “I was weak, don’t you see that? I did this on purpose.” 

“Did what? What are you talking about?” 

“Don’t you see? I did this to myself on purpose. I didn’t just go insane, doctor, I did it to myself. I was weak, I couldn’t take the pain, so I hid inside my own head. I would take myself to Cardassia or the station or Romulus. Anywhere but there. Any reality except that one. And I went deeper and deeper until I couldn’t tell the difference between the pain and the dream anymore. And I didn't care. I did that on  _ purpose.” _

Julian’s brows twitch downward. Disappointment, inevitably. 

Garak looks away. “You deserve to know what kind of sickness you’re really dealing with here.”

A warm, soft hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m not going to attack you for the way you coped with being tortured,” Julian says. He sounds hurt. Garak can’t fathom why. “For any of it. I’m not judging you. You haven’t done anything wrong. In fact, you did the only thing that matters. You survived.”

Garak laughs. “That hardly matters.”

“It does to me!” Julian looks angry, shocked. He never raises his voice like that. 

“What?”

“You matter to me, you  _ idiot." _

“Julian?”

His face crumples. He pulls Garak close, hides his face in his shoulder, and cries. 

***

“I missed you  _ so much.”  _

It comes out like more of a whine, but it’s better than not telling him. Julian should have told him this hundreds of times by now, not just once or twice, awkwardly over lunch when Garak was barely coherent enough to hear him. He should have told him this as many times as he needed to hear it in order to understand. 

Julian ends up threading his hand through Garak’s hair. It’s a bit greasy, and he smells like he hasn’t showered in a couple of days, but it doesn’t matter. It means he’s there. 

Julian should have said something. He knew Garak was getting bad again, that whatever he was doing alone in his shop was hurting him. But he didn’t want to rock the boat. He didn’t want to seem like he was trying to take away Garak’s independence again. 

So here they are. 

He just holds him. It feels like the only thing he can do, like he’s watching from the sidelines as pain pours out of both of them and all he can do is clear away the excess. The rest seems to sit and fester. 

Garak shifts, and Julian lets him lean back far enough to look up at him. He has to wipe away the tears from his face; he already feels his cheeks drying and tightening with salt. 

“Why are you crying?” Garak murmurs. 

“Because…” Julian says, not knowing where his sentence is going and not caring. Garak looks mesmerised by him, completely focused. He suits the shadows, with glints of light silhouetting him against the wall, shining from his scales. His eyes shine in the darkness. 

It’s quiet. 

Silent. 

Garak is so close, looking at him like nothing else matters, like Julian the only thing in the universe worth looking at. He looks at Julian the way Julian has been trying not to look at him. 

He can't stand how much Garak hates himself now. Or maybe he's always been like this, and this illness has just destroyed any reason he had to pretend otherwise.  Either way, he needs to know that he is loved. Julian cannot justify keeping that from him any longer. 

“Because,” Julian says, and kisses him. 

It’s almost nothing. Two seconds of contact with cool lips before he realises that Garak isn’t moving, isn’t kissing him back. 

He breaks off. 

Garak is staring, wide-eyed. 

He miscalculated. 

Panic floods through him. He’s ruined everything. He jerks back, stammering, trying to pick up the pieces of the mess he's just made. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.” 

He moves to get up, but Garak catches his wrist. 

“Wait,” he says. He still looks like he’s in shock. “Please. I understand. You were only trying to be kind.” 

Garak still doesn’t get it. 

“Yeah,” Julian dully says, hating himself. It’s for the best.

Garak smiles slightly. “You’ve always been so kind to me.” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that, how to refute it when he’s been living with the crippling guilt of avoiding Garak for months. He hasn’t been kind at all. And even now he’s forced his own feelings into a situation which didn’t require them. 

He tries to stand again, but Garak’s hand is still closed around his wrist. 

“If I could trouble you for one more kindness.” 

“Anything,” Julian quickly says. Anything to make this better. 

“I seem to have neglected to take my medication this evening.” 

“I’ll get it for you.”

The hypo is on the coffee table. When he picks it up, he stops and stands there in the living room for a moment, face hidden in his hand.  _ What was he thinking?  _ That kissing Garak was going to fix everything? That it would even mean anything? He’s lucky Garak didn’t just leave. 

Garak doesn’t extend his hand to take the medication himself. He just sits expectantly, and Julian administers it for him, hand brushing against the cool skin of his shoulder. 

“Will you stay?” Julian asks into the silent room. “You can, you know. For as long as you like. You won’t be imposing or anything silly like that. The opposite, in fact.”

Garak tilts his head. The dazed look hasn’t left his eyes. 

“I would like that very much,” he says. “Although perhaps you might prefer to return to your own bed.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Julian says. 

Garak smiles, gives that polite, Cardassian nod. “Goodnight, doctor.” 

“Goodnight, Garak.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me! 
> 
> They will get there. Eventually.


	18. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Julian's warnings, Garak continues with his obsession, and Julian goes to Keiko for advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw slight disordered eating, some anxiety, some referenced homophobia

Julian knows. 

That is the only thought that can cut through the manic cycle of that video playing over and over in Garak’s head. 

Julian knows what he is. Julian knows what he  _ wants. _ And he doesn’t care.  He looks at Garak a little awkwardly over breakfast, yes, but he's not  disgusted. 

And he kissed him. 

Impossible to forget that.

So perhaps, after all, there may be a chance that he can keep his friendship with Julian, and not have to hide his horrible feelings for him with quite so much terror. He can hide them out of politeness now, rather than fear. 

“You do know why it’s a bad idea to keep obsessing over that video, don’t you?” Julian says. 

“I’m not obsessing, I’m-”

“Obsessing.” Julian says again. “You’re triggering these awful memories over and over again, and trying to force yourself to remember more. You have to see how self-destructive that is.” 

“I’m fine,” Garak says. “A memory is just a memory. Perhaps I let myself get a little overexcited last night. But you can’t say you aren’t the same when you’re on the edge of uncovering some medical mystery.” 

“That isn’t the same thing at all. I’m not trying to cure myself. You are.” 

“Well, no, I’m trying to fix a mistake I made.” 

“Because you think it’s going to fix  _ you. _ You’re putting everything into this in the hope that once you find the other half of the video, you’ll be able to let go of the guilt.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Garak says, though it feels uncomfortably like the truth. He’s only eating breakfast in the first place because he overslept, and Julian looked like he was going to start the wrong kind of argument if he didn’t sit down with him. 

“I did the same thing,” Julian says. He lowers his eyes to the table. “When the changeling replaced me. I spent weeks going through everything he’d done, tracking down every patient he’d seen and checking up on them to make sure the reports he wrote matched what actually happened. I checked and reorganised every inch of the infirmary. I spoke to each of the nurses about everything they could remember him doing. In the end, Sisko had to order me to take a day off.” 

“It’s not as though it was your fault that you were abducted,” Garak slowly says. 

He’s never heard Julian talk about this before. He saw the doctor retreat into himself after the internment camp and his parents’ disastrous visit, get quiet and snappy on the Defiant as the war got worse and worse. But he never actually said anything. It was disconcerting, given how readily Julian talked about everything else in his life. 

“No, but it felt like my responsibility to fix everything he’d done. Because everyone he’d treated thought they were being treated by me. They thought they could trust me, and I had to regain that trust. I had to regain control of the situation.” 

“You thought it was your duty,” Garak says. 

“Yes.” 

It’s a cold, tight feeling, knowing that Julian has felt this desperate need to push down pain by clinging to things he can control. It scares him that Julian could ever feel as pathetic and disgusting as he does. 

“You understand that I can’t stop. I’m hardly going to hand the files back to Chief O’Brien and never look at them again.” 

“I know. But I think you need to take a step back. At least take a few days where you’re not thinking about this stuff.”

The thought of not breaking through the encryptions for  _ days  _ makes his heart clench. He can’t wait that long. He can’t just sit here and do nothing. He puts down his fork; he can’t keep eating with that horrible feeling tightening around his stomach. 

“What else am I supposed to think about?” he asks. 

What else is there? 

Certainly not how it felt to have Julian kiss him, or the feeling of his thigh pressed against Garak’s, or his warm hand on his shoulder, brushing through his hair, sliding against the sensitive scales that he probably doesn’t understand the significance of. Or maybe he does, and he’s just trying to be kind when he touches him like that. It’s certainly more than Garak ever expected to get. 

“Normal things, you know. The things you would normally do.” 

“I would normally be decoding Dominion transmissions,” Garak says. “And unless you intend to restrain me, I intend to continue with my work.” 

Garak gets to his feet; frustration and disappointment emanate from Julian’s body language. 

Julian grabs Garak’s wrist as he passes - bare skin on his, squeezing gently, thumb rubbing back and forth in that indescribably gentle way. It soothes the tight, strange feeling that’s taken over his body recently. 

“Fine. But I’ll meet you for lunch and dinner,” he says. “Because I know you won’t eat if I don’t.” 

It stings slightly that he’s so certain Garak won’t have plans of his own. He doesn’t, obviously, besides working, but it’s the principle of the thing. 

“Good day, doctor.” 

***

“I did something stupid. Really, incredibly stupid.” 

Keiko raises her eyebrows at him. 

“I’d better get some tea.” 

She’s the only one who knows, and the only person Julian can imagine talking to about Garak like this. She’s one of the few people that genuinely seems to like him, for a start. Dax would be his other option, but he doesn’t quite trust her not to mention it to Sisko for a laugh. 

“So.” She sits beside him on the sofa and settles Yoshi in her lap. “What happened?”

He takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t meant to happen. We were both upset about something. I just saw him, and I thought - he really doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t understand that we’re friends, that I care about him as more than just a patient. That just wasn’t getting through his thick Cardassian skull.” 

“Okay, so?” 

“So I kissed him.” 

Her eyes widen. “And?” 

“And nothing! He was very civil about it, obviously. But now I don’t know  _ what  _ to do.” 

“Huh.” Keiko sips her tea. Yoshi watches him with wide eyes. “When you say he was civil about it…?”

“He said, and I quote, _‘I understand. You were only trying to be kind’.”_

“And you said…?”

“I said _‘yeah’._ I didn’t know what to do. I can’t believe I did that, like I expected him to just fall into my arms and everything would be fine.” 

Keiko sets down her tea and fixes him with an analytical look. 

“Julian, you know how it feels when you don’t quite fit in somewhere, and people try to include you anyway just to be nice, but you can tell that’s why they’re doing it? It feels horrible, like they’ve invited you along as a charity case.” 

A cold dread settles in him. 

“Yes, I know the feeling.” 

“Right. And when that happens to you - even once - you get kind of paranoid, even when you have good friends who like you and want you around, that they don’t actually want you, and they’re only pretending to out of pity.” 

“Right.”

“Right. So now imagine you’re upset, and your best friend - who has never shown any interest in you before - kisses you. What are you more likely to think? That he likes you, or that he’s just trying to make you feel better?” 

“Right.” Julian sinks deeper into the sofa as his heart sinks further into the floor. “But if he was interested in me, surely he would have said once I kissed him, wouldn’t he?” 

“This is  _ Garak  _ we’re talking about,” Keiko reminds him. “And you know, Cardassians can be very unkind when it comes to people who are different. You can’t assume that Garak is as comfortable being open with his sexuality as you are.”

His first instinct is to refute that. Garak has flirted  _ outrageously  _ with him for the past six years. Then again, he can’t remember any evidence he’s seen of a Cardassian in a same-sex relationship. Not a single reference in a single book Garak has loaned him in the past six years. They’ve all been about duty to one’s family - and the family in question has always been a traditional husband and wife with a child. 

He then pictures the painfully awkward way Garak behaved with Ziyal. 

“Oh.”

Julian sinks even deeper into the sofa, and promptly gives up on existing as anything other than a sofa cushion for the rest of the conversation. He assumed that because Garak was so- well, himself, that it wouldn’t be an issue. Homophobia didn’t even cross his mind.

“I am a massive idiot, aren’t I?”

“Sometimes you need to think a little more before you act. And sometimes you think far too much and miss the obvious,” she says, smiling slightly. “I’m sure if you talked to him, he’d understand where you went wrong.”

“What if this is the wrong time? I mean, he can barely accept that I like him as a friend. He’s still not well. I should have just waited.”

“There’s no point focusing on what you should have done. Just think about what you can do now. We know he likes you, and you like him. How complicated can it be to get everyone on the same page?”

“This is Garak we’re talking about,” he echoes. “And I  _ don’t  _ know that he likes me. Not for sure.” 

“Come  _ on, _ Julian!” Keiko exclaims. “You must have been sure enough to kiss him in the first place.”

“I don’t know.” 

Maybe he ought to draw up a list. Or a graph. Some way to generate statistics he can compute. Evidence for and against. But everything is so damned ambiguous that he doesn’t know. 

The way Garak looked at him last night, just before Julian kissed him...he was so sure of what it meant. It was so gentle, so adoring. He seeks out Julian’s touch - and he relaxes, visibly, when they touch. For Garak, that’s a huge thing. 

But. 

_ But.  _

He’s never actually done anything. 

Six  _ years.  _

But if Keiko is right, and Cardassians have deep-rooted homophobia in their culture, a lack of action isn’t as much of a vote against Garak liking him as previously thought. 

And Julian hasn’t done anything, either. (Aside from kissing him, but that’s a statistical anomaly.) Everything he’s done from a place of love can come off as kindness or friendship - or pity, if one has Garak’s terrible self-esteem. And Julian relied on that to cover up his feelings, because he wasn’t ready. 

But now he is, is the problem. He wants this. He wants nothing more than to kiss Garak again - properly, this time - and tell him - properly, this time - that he is loved. That Julian loves him.

What a mess. 

***

He’s shaking again. Anxiety. That’s the uncomfortable, familiar feeling Garak has been getting more and more over the past few days. He brushed it off as hunger, but he’s eaten today. It’s not hunger, it’s terror he can’t shift. 

He has to do this, then it will go away. He has to do this, then he can actually sleep again. 

The answer dances out of his grip every time he gets close.

“No, you don’t,” he mutters to it every now and then. 

He needs this. 

_ “It’s your duty.” _

Nothing else matters. 

He swallows the dread of what he’s going to find. His own cowardice cannot get in the way of his duty. 

“You can do this. It’s not that hard. It’s just a matter of patience.” 

He pushes and pushes at the encryption with everything he can think of. He approaches it in a dozen different ways and tries to unpick it with a dozen different solutions. Every thread he thinks he’s found, when he tries to pull it out, nothing unravels. 

His head starts to hurt; he’s been more prone to headaches ever since his implant malfunctioned. He works through them anyway. He has no choice. 

“Garak.” 

He jumps. The anxiety digs in its claws, even though it’s only Julian. 

“One moment, doctor.” 

“I’ve only got forty minutes.” 

“And I only need a moment!” 

Julian slides closer and touches his arm, squeezing gently. The anxiety spits, hisses and curls up in a corner. He can concentrate a little easier with Julian at his side. 

He darts down an alley he thought he’d been down before, just to double check. 

But then-

_ There.  _

His body seizes as the web unravels before his eyes. Dozens of files scatter across the screen. 

“What is it?” 

“I did it.” 

“What?” 

"The files, Julian."

Julian nudg es him sideways so he can look at the console too. Garak lets their arms brush together as he flicks through the files with shaking hands, looking for the one he wants. They’re all from the day of the attack on the facility. 

“It’s- it's- it's an automatic wipe. When Starfleet attacked, the computers tried to encrypt their memories so it would look like the files were corrupted, but they- they only managed to get through the last 30 hours or so before the power went out.” 

Adrenaline courses through him as he searches for the other half of the video. 

He finds the right camera. He finds the right file. 

His hand hovers over it. Julian grasps his wrist before he can play it. 

“We should call Odo,” Julian says. “You don’t have to see any of this.” 

Garak gives him a look. He is not going to allow Julian to protect him from the consequences of his actions. Not knowing what he's done will be worse torture than watching that video a thousand times over. 

Julian sighs. “Then I’ll stay with you.”

That sends his anxiety into overdrive. 

“That is hardly necessary. I would hate for you to be disappointed with what you see.” 

_ I would hate for you to hate me.  _

Julian’s hand slips down to link with his, and squeezes gently. 

“There's nothing you could have done that will change my opinion of you.” 

Apparently not.

When exactly did it become so common for him to do this? When did he realise that it’s the thing Garak desires most? 

There are other things he wants, of course, but they’re so wildly unrealistic that the thing he thinks of most often is touching Julian’s hand - because it’s the most possible. (He’s excluding the kiss as one of Julian’s well-meaning but poorly-thought-out mistakes. That or a hallucination.) And Julian has, out of nowhere, started doing this at random. 

No, not at random. He does it exactly when Garak needs it.  Even now, when it’s entirely possible that he knows what it means to a Cardassian, Julian is holding his hand, purely because he knows it helps. 

He tightens his grip on Julian's warm hand, and starts the video.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nearly there!!!!!!!!


	19. The Tactician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The other half of the video.

It’s the same awful scene Julian saw weeks ago, the one Garak has apparently been rewatching. White walls and a metal floor splattered with blood. But finally, that dead-eyed look at the end of the clip shifts, and Garak makes his demands. 

_ “I want some clothes and a bottle of kanar,” _ he says.  _ “The good kind, mind you. And I want to talk to a Founder.”  _

The Vorta breathes in deeply, outraged.  _ “You are in no position to demand the time of a god. Why should we even believe you have anything of worth to tell us?” _

Garak sighs.  _ “Can we skip the theatrics? You haven’t killed me yet because you know I have information you want. And you will summon your god here, because you know I have information **they** want. I can tell you about the station, the personnel. Things you can’t get from the outside.”  _

Korva hums, and crouches beside him. 

_ “What changed? You no longer care for your Federation friends?” _

Garak looks away. His gaze falls on something in the corner of the room, and laughs. 

_ “The Federation are not my friends. They put me in a cell, you know. Six  _ **_months_ ** _ for trying to destroy the Founders. And then they come crawling to me, begging for my help to fight their war. Nothing sickens me like Federation hypocrisy. No, no. That freezing shithole can burn, for all I care.”  _

He feels Garak’s hand loosen, ready to pull back, and tightens his grip. Julian isn’t going to judge him for anything he said. He knows how Garak feels about the Federation, and the station. He also knows Garak has a tendency to say cruel things when he’s upset, or lying. 

What matters is that he knows how Garak feels about him.

_ “And you would help us do that?”  _ Korva asks. 

On screen, Garak spits out a mouthful of blood and looks up at her. 

_ “Gladly.” _

Korva rises to her feet, a thoughtful expression on her face, and gestures to the Jem’Hadar soldiers. 

_ “Find him some clothes.” _

She strides out, leaving Garak on the floor, and the Jem’Hadar follow. 

Julian glances sideways at Garak. His expression is carefully blank as he skips forward through the CCTV. Hours pass in seconds. He catches glimpses of Garak talking to the air that they both ignore. 

One of the soldiers tosses a bundle of clothes at him. 

_ “You couldn’t get something tailored?” _ he asks in a hoarse voice. 

Julian exhales a laugh and nudges his shoulder. 

The soldiers ignore him, and drag him out of the cell. 

He has to flip between cameras to follow their movement from his cell, down the corridor and into another room. There’s a metal table with a chair set up on either side. Garak is pushed into one of them.

“They like to make you wait,” Garak murmurs beside him as he skips through footage of him sitting in the empty room. “It’s traditional.” 

Occasionally the Garak on-screen will glance to his right and make an expression, or say something to the empty room that gets cut off because he’s playing the video too fast. 

He stops. 

A Founder walks in, followed by Korva, flanked by two Jem’Hadar. 

Garak tightens his grip on Julian’s hand. 

Korva places a bottle of kanar on the table in front of Garak and then recoils, brushing off her hands on her jacket like it’s dirty, and puts her hands behind her back, falling into place behind the Founder.

_ “Thank you.”  _ Garak says. 

Garak picks it up and pulls out the cork as the Founder sits in the chair opposite him. They look vaguely disdainful. 

_ “I don’t have all day, Mr Garak. If you have something to say, I suggest you say it quickly.”  _

_ “You’ll have to excuse me if I drag out the scraps of intelligent conversation available to me in this place,” _ Garak says. He takes a concerningly large drink from the bottle, and then sighs.  _ “There are whispers. Echoes in paperwork. A sentence or two at the end of a routine report. A line out of place. Secret communiques with Sisko.” _

The Founder remains unresponsive.  _ “I’m listening.”  _

_ “I was curious, of course, so I did my due diligence. I followed the leads as far as they would take me. There are massive orders of certain materials being compiled. Cyberneticists quietly removed from their posts and taken to a more secure facility somewhere deep in Federation space. The foremost experts on the construction of positronic brains.”  _

Julian frowns. None of this sounds familiar to him. He glances at Garak to check he’s alright, and to check if he’s remembering anything. Garak just stares at the screen, a slight frown on his face. 

_ “What are you saying?”  _ Korva snaps. _ “Spit it out.”  _

_ “Synthetic life forms, weaponized to fight for the Federation. A few thousand, at most, but that’s more than enough to turn the tide of this war.” _

“Is that true?” Julian asks. Garak glances at him, shaking his head. He doesn’t know. 

_ “I find that difficult to believe,” _ the Founder says. 

_ “If you have been following the developments of Federation scientists into artificial intelligence, it makes complete sense,” _ Garak says.  _ “The names of everyone else involved, I can only guess at from what I’ve seen. Admiral Ross, certainly. Perhaps Admiral Nechayev. Off the top of my head there are a few experts I know to have been reassigned or promoted in recent months, Maddox at Daystrom being the most prominent.”  _

Behind the Founder, Korva tilts her head.  _ “And how have you come to be so familiar with the Federation’s research into artificial intelligence? It is my understanding that your expertise lies in communications technology and covert operations.”  _

_ “I had a friend on Deep Space Nine who found the subject fascinating. They already have one android serving in Starfleet. It’s the logical step to make.” _

Julian squeezes his hand. Apparently Garak  _ was  _ listening all those times Julian told him about his meeting with Commander Data. 

_ “Think about it. They would compete with your Jem’Hadar. They don’t eat or sleep, they don’t feel pain. They can repair themselves. And - just like a changeling - you can’t tell from looking at them that there’s something not quite right. Of course, nothing replaces the organic touch of a true spy when it comes to undercover work, but for military operations, combat? Brilliant.” _

The Founder tilts their head.  _ “You seem quite excited about this.” _

Garak shrugs, and takes another drink.  _ “It’s the tactician in me.”  _

_ “It seems Starfleet has quite wasted your talents,” _ the Founder says.  _ “Perhaps Cardassia would benefit from taking you back.”  _

_ “Don’t hold your breath,”  _ Garak snorts.  _ “Oh, you don’t breathe, of course. How convenient. I often wish I didn’t have to breathe. So much unnecessary pain.”  _

The Founder hums and leans back in their seat. 

_ “We have heard nothing of such an army.”  _

Garak smiles.  _ “You wouldn’t. Odo was assigned to control the security around communications. He has an intimate understanding of how a changeling might attempt to infiltrate such an operation.”  _

The Founder’s attention is caught immediately and they lean forward. 

_ “Odo?” _

Garak pretends to be casual, like he’s mentioned Odo off-hand. But he knows what he’s doing. 

_ “He fascinates you, doesn’t he?”  _ he says. 

_ “What do you know about Odo?” _ the Founder asks. 

Garak drinks again. It’s concerning, but not altogether surprising.

_ “I know about exile. There are certain flaws in every society that one can only recognise from the outside. I’d wager that if you hadn’t sent him out into space when he was an infant puddle of changeling slime, he would never have turned against you.” _

The Founder is invested now. They’re trying to hide it, but all of them are pulled towards Odo, and Garak knows that. He’s harnessed it to get them engaged. 

_ “You defended him once, from Enabran Tain. He would have been killed, but you defended him. Why?”  _

_ “Ah. Well, I knew if something went wrong with our little trip, and I had to return to the station, it would have to be with Odo. His friends would never accept my word that if something happened to him, it wasn’t my hand on the trigger.” _

_ “You don’t consider him your friend?” _ the Founder says. 

Garak shrugs.  _ “I like him well enough. And he has a better sense of humour than the rest of you. But Odo doesn’t consider anyone his friend. Nor do I. We’re both far too pragmatic for such things.”  _

_ “And Dr Bashir?” _ Korva presses.

Julian jumps. It’s disarming to hear his own name. 

On screen, Garak blinks, caught off guard. 

_ “What about him?” _ he asks, deliberately casual. 

The Founder watches him carefully.  _ “Earlier you mentioned you had a friend on Deep Space Nine who was interested in cybernetics. I can only conclude from our intelligence that this friend would be Dr Bashir. Or were you lying about that?” _

Garak is silent for a moment. He glances to his right, seeing something that isn’t there. Seeing  _ him, _ Julian realises, with a weird, lurching feeling. 

Garak has hallucinated him. 

_ “Lying to myself, I think, rather than you,”  _ Garak eventually says. 

_ “Fascinating, how often solids seem to do that,”  _ the Founder remarks.  _ “You cannot accept the reality in which you live, so you invent a new one inside your own heads. Not very pragmatic, is it?”  _

_ “No. Perhaps not.” _ Garak smiles, tired and bitter, and drinks again.  _ “I assume a shapeshifter would have any number of means to infiltrate Deep Space Nine without my assistance.”  _

_ “We have no need for floor plans and security measures, Mr Garak. We gathered all the information we could possibly need when we owned that station.” _

_ “There is one thing you don’t know. Dukat would have kept it from your people.”  _

_ “Oh?”  _

_ “There is a compartment in the captain’s desk. As I recall, Dukat used it to conceal tasteless imagery of his Bajoran comfort women. Doubtless Starfleet will have found it long ago; by a process of elimination I concluded months ago that that is where Sisko must be storing the communiques he receives about the android project. There is a switch on the underside of the desk that opens the drawer.” _

The Founder seems disbelieving.  _ “But you don’t know for sure that the information is there.”  _

_ “You understand that it’s quite difficult for a Cardassian to sneak into a Starfleet captain’s office in full view of his subordinates. That seems more like a task for one of your people.” _

It all starts falling into place for Julian. Among the lies about Dukat and the androids are Ensign Simmons, the Founder, the alarm in Sisko’s desk. 

_ “I notice that despite the apparent value of the intelligence you are offering, you haven’t made any demands for your return to Cardassia.” _

Garak’s face falls, his eyes go dull. He fiddles with the twisted neck of the bottle. 

_ “Do changelings get tired? Do you get old?” _

_ “We do not.” _

_ “Of course not. Let’s just say that people in my line of work do not have an exceptionally long life expectancy, and I surpassed it a long time ago.”  _

He drinks a heavy gulp of kanar and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. 

_ “I always thought I would die in service to my people. Perhaps defending Cardassia at some great battle, or alone in some dungeon protecting her secrets. Since that privilege is no longer open to me, I shall have to settle for dying in the knowledge that I have helped destroy one of her enemies.” _

He locks eyes with the Founder for a moment.

The Founder who ended up in a pile of crusty ashes on the floor of Sisko’s office. 

“You did it,” Julian says. 

“Hm?” Garak is barely listening, staring at the screen, enraptured. 

“That Founder came to the station, and was killed when he set off the alarm under Sisko’s desk. That was because of you.” 

“I see." 

Garak swallows, and pulls his hand out of Julian’s so he can lean on the console. 

“Garak?”

He’s breathing heavily. Julian tries to nudge him away from the screen so he can’t see it anymore, but he won’t move.  He just looks up at Julian with a dazed look of pain. 

“I remember.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at last!!!!! there are still things to clear up, though....


	20. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the video.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to post both these chapters today bc i couldn't stand waiting! 
> 
> cw for anxiety attack, trauma

Garak remembers.

Snatches of the knife crossing the Jem’Hadar’s neck. A hint of the android conspiracy nudges something in the back of his head. 

And being shot. He remembers that.

Alarms start to blare. Seconds later, a deafening crash shakes the camera. When the movement stops, the Founder is on their feet and leaving the room without another glance at him. The Vorta quickly shadows them. 

The Jem’Hadar turn to follow. 

He watches himself rise silently from the table, wielding the bottle by the neck like a club, and smash it over the head of one of the soldiers. He pulls the soldier back and slash his throat with the knife-edge of the broken bottle. 

Blood sprays out in a fountain. 

Phaser fire from the other soldier. He uses the bleeding Jem’Hadar as a shield while he wrestles him for his rifle and kills the other one in a blinding blast. The bleeding body slumps to the floor, and Garak drops down with it, clutching his side. 

The building shakes. Deafening noise that crashes around him, threatening to collapse on top of him-

“Okay, that’s enough.” 

He becomes vaguely aware that he’s sitting on the floor, with Julian looming over him.

“Hm?” 

Julian guides him onto the bench by the wall.

“I knew this was a bad idea.” He gently touches Garak’s face to get his attention. “Hey, focus on me.” 

He would like nothing more, but the maelstrom of images hurtling through his head will not be silenced. He just has to watch them pass. 

He’s been shot. He hisses under his breath and picks up the rifle again and forces himself to his feet. 

Another blast. 

Garak leans back against the wall of the interrogation room, rifle up in a military posture, and watches the door.

He watches himself peer out of the doorqway to see the Romulans sneaking out of their cells. He sees them pick up rifles. He sees himself crumple up the shirt he was given and press it against the wound in his side, and collapse in the interrogation room. 

“Call Odo,” he forces himself to say. 

“What?” Julian has been reduced to a nebulous entity somewhere in front of him, a vague pressure on his arm. 

“About the androids. I don’t think it was true but I can’t say for certain.  _ Call. Odo.” _

“I don’t think it was. Maddox wrote a paper a few months ago calling for something similar, but I’ve not heard anything about-” 

_ “Now,  _ doctor.” 

Julian sighs. Garak only somewhat picks up the sound of him comming Odo. All his attention is drawn to a faint ringing sound in his ears, of a high pitch he’s sure he hasn’t been able to pick up since his twenties. 

He can still hear the gurgling sound of a soldier choking on his own blood. Such things haven’t bothered him in a long time, but he’s never had to listen to them over and over in his head before. He’s never had his own memory hide from him, and then jump out at him all at once, shouting  _ surprise! _

Odo arrives. He gives Garak a sidelong look as he approaches the console. 

“We should go and sit somewhere else,” Julian says. “We haven’t had lunch yet.” 

He’s trying to be kind, to avoid Garak having to listen to it all over again. 

“You can go, if you like,” Garak says. “But I need to know.” 

Julian sighs and sits beside him, far closer than necessitated by the length of the bench. 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly difficult to look after?” 

“No,” Garak says. “No-one else has been bold enough to try.” 

He listens to the tape play again, and watches the images flick through his head as Julian rubs his arm. 

Odo glances at them out of the corner of his eye while he watches the recording. He’s probably noticed by now that there’s something going on. (If Odo quantifies ‘Julian indulging Garak’s embarrassing needs’ as ‘something going on’.) He wouldn’t be surprised if Odo was already aware of his feelings for Julian; he probably knows enough about Cardassians in general - and about Garak in particular - to guess. 

When Odo reaches the point where they stopped, he frowns. 

Garak gets to his feet, Julian rising beside him in tandem.

“Well?” Garak asks. His chest hurts, his throat tight. “The androids. Is it true?” 

Odo sighs. “To my knowledge, no. I have not been informed of any such operation.” 

Julian sighs in relief, but that’s not good enough to soothe Garak’s concerns. 

“Ask Sisko,” Garak immediately says. 

“Look, Garak, I really think you just made it up,” Julian gently says. It doesn’t matter. He can’t tell the difference. It’s entirely possible to lie so completely that he can deceive himself. 

“But if I didn’t...look, even if I did make it all up - which is entirely possible, I’ll admit - there might be some truth in it somewhere. And if there is, then the Dominion will be trying to infiltrate by now.” 

“Dr Bashir is probably right,” Odo says, looking a bit uneasy. 

“You could check, though. I mean, just ask Sisko. He’s not going to tell  _ me _ , is he? Starfleet already wants me dead.” 

“Hey, Garak, no. Nobody wants you dead.” Julian’s hand is on his back. He might sound a little deranged at this point, but it doesn’t matter if it means he can get Odo to do what he wants. 

“Odo, please.” 

Odo looks at him, and at Julian, and sighs. 

“Very well. I’ll speak to the Captain about the possibility that an operation of this nature could have been compromised. In the meantime, try to stay out of trouble.” 

Odo strides out of the shop, leaving it emptier and quieter, save for the thundering sound of marching boots in his head. Julian’s hand rests gently on his back. 

They wait. 

“Do you think there’s a reason you’re so determined to believe you’ve done something wrong?” Julian tentatively says. 

“I certainly don’t want to believe that. There simply isn’t sufficient evidence to the contrary.” 

“There is. We’ve just seen it. You’re just biased.” 

“Against myself?” Garak scoffs. “That doesn’t make any sense.” 

“You’re the one insisting you must have betrayed us, when you’ve  _ seen  _ that you didn’t, just because your memory is still a little off.” 

Julian sounds very patient and logical, which makes Garak want to argue with him. 

“Not betrayed, necessarily. I’m merely pointing out the very real possibility of- of multiple discovery. That I thought of the idea because you told me about that scientist, Maddox, and some secret branch of Starfleet _ just so happens _ to have been working on it, and now the Dominion are looking for it, and it will be infiltrated all because I made up a thoughtless lie-” 

“Garak.” Julian squeezes his shoulder to quiet him. “The anxiety you’re experiencing is irrational.” 

“Ha! Easy for you to say.” 

Garak folds his arms and paces back and forth, trying to curb the horrible, clenching anxiety in his chest. Irrational or not, it won’t go away until he’s sure. Julian watches him, worried but resigned to his worry until Garak lets him help. 

He can’t cope with being comforted until he can feel like he deserves it. And he won’t feel like he deserves it until he’s certain that he hasn’t done something wrong. 

And if he has-? 

Punishment. 

Mistakes mean punishment. A cell or a closet or a freezing space station. 

A small white room. 

Mistakes mean punishment. 

Punishment means this horrible anxiety in his chest. 

_ “Odo to Bashir.”  _

“Bashir here.” 

_ “Is Garak still with you, doctor?”  _

“Yes, he is.” 

Julian’s combadge causes Odo’s voice to crackle slightly. 

_ “Perhaps you could inform him that I’ve spoken to Sisko, and to his knowledge, there are no military operations currently underway that pertain to the mass production of androids. He has also agreed to contact his superiors so that if there is an operation of that kind that he is for some reason unaware of, the proper authorities will be notified to increase their security.”  _

“Thank you, Odo,” Julian says. “There, you see?”

Garak did not anticipate arriving at this juncture. He didn’t plan for what he was going to do when it inevitably turned out that he’d done something terrible, either, but at least he’d been certain of that eventuality. 

Relief has never come easy to him. 

Mistake - anxiety - punishment. 

There is no punishment. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. He hasn’t done anything worthy of a prison sentence. 

He’s fine. 

His mind hasn’t caught up to that yet. He’s still firmly in the anxiety phase, awaiting a punishment that isn’t going to come. 

And it won’t. 

He’s fine. 

It’s fine. 

Nothing wrong at all. 

He just needs to calm down, perhaps in a more open space, which he can’t get to because he’s trapped on a space station. 

But that’s fine. 

He’s _ fine.  _

It’s just that he can’t quite breathe properly, which isn’t ideal. He’s supposed to be able to do that. 

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” 

Julian is there, and judging by the worry on his face, he’s been trying to get Garak’s attention for quite a while. 

“Hm? Yes, well. No. I- ah. What were you saying?” 

“I was saying, you’re having a panic attack.” 

“Well, I know  _ that.” _

Julian’s hands are on his temple and his shoulder, gentle. Too gentle. He needs something more than that to make the tight crawling go away, some firmer pressure that he can’t ask for. He can’t. It’s too much, it’s too vulnerable a thing to ask. 

He’ll be fine without it. 

“You’re going to be alright,” Julian says. 

“I know.” 

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“I-” Garak can’t say anything to that. He doesn’t know that. He can’t accept that. There’s always something. He deserves to be punished for something. 

Julian sighs and hugs him. 

His arms circle Garak’s waist and he rests his chin on his shoulder. Julian holds him just firmly enough that it’s perfect, the pressure of Julian against his chest and his hands on his back is so perfect that he forgets these things are supposed to be reciprocal. 

The scent of Julian lingers all around him - his shampoo and cologne and everything Garak has grown accustomed to smelling in his bed, only ten times as strong. 

He awkwardly mirrors Julian’s position, unsure whether he’s allowed to hug the doctor back or whether this is strictly a one-way, professional treatment. It’s working, whatever it is. He feels less exposed to the shrinking room.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Julian says again. And this time, Garak considers the distant, impossible possibility that he’s right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know your thoughts!!!! ive been waiting to get to this bit for ages!


	21. Admiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian admires Garak; Garak admires Julian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for drinking

Julian only has ten minutes left before a briefing, and he’s determined to spend all of them with Garak. Ideally, he wanted to spend a few hours with him to make sure he’s alright after triggering himself  _ again.  _

He sits across from Garak in the Replimat and inhales as much of his lunch as he can. Garak pokes delicately at some salad or another. He’s absent, but thoughtful, rather than anxious. 

Julian didn’t know what to expect before he watched that recording. Disoriented ramblings like he’d seen during the worst of Garak’s psychosis, or obvious lies, like when Garak insists he’s _just a tailor_ or he has absolutely no idea what Julian is talking about when he asks him about being a spy. Part of him worried that Garak  _ had  _ spilled whatever secrets he had in a dissociated haze and there was something truly dangerous in there. 

But he hadn’t done any of that. Despite the hallucinations he was suffering and the constant threat of torture, despite the near certainty that he was going to be killed sooner rather than later, Garak maintained enough of a grip on himself to lie. And to lie _ well.  _

He held off on breaking for so long that when he finally did, Julian suspected even Garak didn’t know the difference between the true extent of his hopelessness and the act he put on for the Dominion. 

He masked his rage against the Dominion as rage against the Federation. He used elements of the truth to his advantage while covering them with just enough deception to create a smokescreen - the great android army - all to get the Founder into a position to be killed. And he did it with such quiet, subtle manipulation that Julian can’t help but be stunned into silence. 

He killed a Jem’Hadar soldier with a kanar bottle. 

He killed a Founder with a lie. 

Garak makes it very easy to forget what he is. He does it on purpose; such is the nature of being a spy, Julian supposes. He wants people to think he doesn’t care when he does, he wants people to think he’s purely self-interested when in reality he’d lay down his life for his duty in a second. 

But in that cell, on that recording, Julian saw an unparalleled resilience and resourcefulness that expected no reward or acknowledgement.

_ “I always thought I would die in service to my people. Perhaps defending Cardassia at some great battle, or alone in some dungeon protecting her secrets. Since that privilege is no longer open to me, I shall have to settle for dying in the knowledge that I have helped destroy one of her enemies.” _

Julian gives up on shovelling down the rest of his lunch with a few minutes left until he has to be in the wardroom, and sets it aside. It’s been a long time since he was intimidated by Garak - years since he was excited to step into his shop and be embroiled by some fantasy of espionage. But he is a little bit in awe of him.

“What you did…” Julian starts, and Garak glances up at him. “That was brilliant.” 

Garak scoffs. “It looked to me like the ramblings of a desperate lunatic.” 

Julian sighs fondly as he stands up. He’s still trying to get used to this insistent, self-deprecating pessimism.

“It looked to me like someone very clever doing something very brave, even though he knew would get him killed.” 

"That’s because you’re an incurable optimist.”

Julian squeezes his shoulder. "You wouldn't have me any other way."

* **

Garak’s shop is quiet without Julian there. He’s not expecting customers, it just makes sense to be here rather than sitting in Julian’s quarters. 

His clothes feel strange on his skin, too big and too cold. 

There’s nothing else for him to do - the thoughts that have obsessed him for days have ground to a halt - so he starts designing something new for himself on a padd. It’s probably the kind of thing Julian meant for him to do when he told him to do ‘normal things’ this morning. 

Julian. 

He can still feel the warmth of that embrace. 

No-one has touched him like that since he was a child. 

Ziyal was the only one who tried, and her innocent affection made him so uncomfortable he couldn’t take any enjoyment from it. Why couldn’t he just accept it and love her properly, or reject it and turn her away properly? 

He doesn’t like to think about Ziyal. She deserved better than him, better than her father and better than to be killed so young. 

The door slides open and he’s woken from horrible thoughts. 

“Mrs O’Brien, good afternoon.” 

“It’s Keiko, please.” She smiles warmly at him; there’s a bundle of clothing in a bag over her shoulder. 

“Keiko,” he uncertainly says. “It’s a pleasure to see you. What can I do for you?” 

She’s always been friendly and polite with him, not seeming to mistrust him the way her husband does. Garak likes her. They talk about plants, sometimes. 

“Oh, it’s been a nightmare this morning. Yoshi got his hands on some nail scissors from the bathroom and went to town on half of Molly’s wardrobe.” 

She puts the bag on the table and pulls out the clothes in question. 

“She’s so upset. I told her we can replicate new ones, but you know how children are. She wouldn’t hear a word of it. She wants  _ her  _ clothes back.”

“Ah.” He picks up a few pieces to assess the damage. “There’s nothing children like more than wanton destruction. But there’s no damage here that seems irreparable. I’m sure I can have these back in working order in no time.” 

“There’s no hurry,” Keiko says. “Whenever you feel up to it.” 

She knows something, then. Do humans ever tire of being sympathetic for people who don’t deserve it?

“I’m sure I can manage a few stitches without any ill effects,” he says, trying to be polite and jovial rather than rude and dismissive. He likes Keiko; there’s no reason to expose her to how cruel he can be. 

“Oh, by the way, what’s it like, living with Julian?” She asks, leaning forward with a conspiratorial whisper. 

“He’s, ah- much more considerate and hospitable than many others I’ve had the misfortune of sharing accomodations with. Although…” He leans forward to mirror her. “He does have a tendency to snore.” 

“Elbow him until he rolls over,” Keiko whispers. “That’s what I do with Miles. He’ll grumble about it, but he won’t remember in the morning.” 

He tries not to think about how Keiko’s statement implies that he shares a bed with Julian in the way she shares a bed with her husband. 

“I shall bear it in mind,” he says. 

He’s glad Keiko has given him something to do, besides sit around being anxious and feeling sorry for himself. 

_ “Now you can sit around being anxious and feeling sorry for yourself while sewing. A great improvement, Elim.”  _

He shuts out the more intolerable voices. Sewing does help, once he allows it to. He can focus on the work and not on his unpleasant thoughts. More ‘normal things’, as Julian recommended. 

And the feeling of Julian’s touch lingers around him. Living with him means Garak picks up some of his scent almost everywhere; it sticks to his clothes. Perhaps someone with a less sensitive nose might not notice, but Cardassians have a strong sense of smell, and at present Garak uses most of his to detect Julian. 

It’s ridiculous to keep indulging his feelings like this. 

Julian is being kind at the moment, but he can’t pander to Garak’s fantasy forever. Even if he does like having Garak live with him, that doesn’t mean he should have to deal with Garak  _ pining  _ over him. It’s embarrassing, for one thing. Inconsiderate, for another, to force Julian to play-act feelings he doesn’t share. Garak isn’t  _ that  _ sensitive to rejection. 

He ties off the thread at the bottom of Molly’s skirt and sighs. He has to do something about this. As much as he wants Julian to keep touching him like that, it feels worse and worse every time. because Julian doesn’t want it the way he does. He’s only doing it out of pity. Every touch is just a medical treatment to him. 

He can’t cope with it much longer. 

***

Julian presses his hands to his eyes and sighs after the meeting in the wardroom. Every new statistic in the war makes him want to sleep for a week. 

Being able to work a normal day in the infirmary helps. He’s able to just be a doctor, to just help people without the looming threat of battle or having to juggle multiple critical patients at once like he has to on the  _ Defiant. _ He wouldn’t call medicine relaxing, but there is something therapeutic about his day-to-day work. 

He’s probably as relieved as Garak is about the contents of the hidden files. He dreads to think what would have happened to Garak’s unstable sense of self-worth if it turned out that he’d told the Dominion something of importance - and what would have happened to the way people would treat him. 

“You home?” he calls into the bedroom when he gets back. 

Garak sticks his head out of the doorway. 

“Ah, hello, doctor.” 

He’s holding a bright bundle of cloth. 

“Is that Molly’s?” Julian asks. 

“Yes. There was an incident this morning, apparently. I’m afraid your room has been rather overrun.” 

Julian peers into the bedroom. There are torn items of Molly’s clothing on the bed and floor, as well as bits of black cloth pinned to paper pattern pieces and sewing devices everywhere. 

“It’s a dreadful mess, I apologise.”

“You don’t have to keep all your things in here, you know. There’s plenty of space out there.” 

“Oh, well. You don’t want your living room cluttered up with all this nonsense.” 

“Our living room,” Julian corrects him. “Anyway, it’s fine. As long as there’s space to sit down, I really don’t care how much mess you make.” 

“My service class upbringing rebels against the notion of staying in a doctor’s quarters and making them  _ more  _ untidy,” Garak says, smiling slightly. “And I did promise you your bed back. I’ll have this cleaned up before this evening.” 

“If you insist. I was thinking, um. We could go out this evening?” 

Keiko advised him to be less ambiguous about things. ‘Going out’ is, admittedly, ambiguous, but it’s a start. She also advised him not to dive into things too suddenly without any buildup.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, I mean, nothing special. I was planning on going to Quark’s.”

Garak looks a little hesitant, but he does agree. 

“I wouldn’t mind accompanying you. I imagine not much has changed in my absence?” 

“Same old sticky floors and malfunctioning holosuites,” Julian says. 

“Delightful,” Garak says. “When would you like to go?” 

***

Julian was right. Quark’s is every bit as noisy, crowded and unpleasant as he remembers it, but at least it’s a familiar kind of unpleasantness that he can get used to after a few minutes of exposure. Its saving grace has always been the dim lights, and the warmth generated by so many drunken bodies pressed into the same space. 

That, and the alcohol. He hasn’t had a proper taste since that bottle of kanar, and as far as he recalls, it wasn’t particularly good. 

“Evening, doctor. Garak. What will it be?” Quark asks when they reach the bar. It seems more crowded than usual tonight. Bodies push past him. Voices catch in his ear, saying things that aren’t meant for him. 

“Glass of Saurian brandy for me, I think,” Julian says. 

“Kanar,” Garak says. He hasn’t got much latinum to his name at present, but there’s nothing he’d rather spend it on than the soothing buzz of alcohol. 

“Finally!” Quark exclaims. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to shift a shipment of kanar in this climate? No-one wants any of my Cardassian merchandise!” 

“I wonder why,” Garak says, as Quark produces the brandy, a bottle of brown kanar and a pair of glasses. 

“Good thing you’re back,” Quark says. “Or this stuff would all be going to waste.” 

“What Quark is trying to say is that he missed you,” Julian smiles. “He couldn’t stand to see your shop empty, so he kept pestering Sisko to let him turn it into a massage facility.” 

“I’m touched,” Garak dryly says. 

“What can I say? I’m sentimental.” 

They find a table near the bar and Garak situates himself with his back to the wall, so he can see as much of his surroundings as possible. 

The first taste of kanar is warm and fills his whole head with the glorious burning of alcohol. That is one thing about freedom that he can’t take for granted. He’s so taken up with it that he doesn’t really hear Julian talking. 

“Garak?” 

“I apologise, what were you saying?” 

“If it’s too much in here…” 

“No, no. I assure you, it’s fine.” He doesn’t want Julian thinking he’s incapable of sitting in  _ Quark’s  _ without another breakdown. “You were saying?” 

“Oh, just about Miles. He might be around later for darts. Do you know how to play?”

“One throws a sharp object at a target, as I recall. Would it shock you to know that I have some technical experience in that field?” 

“Not at all,” Julian says. “I assume the sharp objects you know how to throw are deadlier.”

“Any object is deadly if one knows how to properly employ it, doctor,” Garak says, and Julian smiles like he’s flirting, like Garak’s trying to impress him and it’s working. He always enjoyed being teased with hints of Garak’s dangerous past, probably a bit too much for his own good. And at lunchtime he was intent on  _ complimenting  _ him for it. 

He finishes his glass of kanar quickly and pours another in search of the calm, vaguely tipsy feeling he’s been missing for months. He hasn’t had a proper drink in so long that it doesn’t take much time for the warm, soft feeling of intoxication to settle in. 

Julian’s smile gets softer as time goes on. He laughs more easily. Garak says things and Julian enjoys them. It's such a luxurious experience that Garak finds himself smiling too. 

There are shadowy figures on the upper level that stand and watch him. He glances at them every now and then, but they're harmless. He leaves them to it. The whispers are quiet, drowned out by the music and conversation. 

He’s vaguely aware of Chief O’Brien appearing, and only becomes very aware of it when Julian gets up to play darts with him. Garak turns in his chair and watches in fascination when Julian positions himself several feet further back from the dartboard than the Chief and still manages to hit the centre of the target. 

The garish lights illuminate his profile, stretching out the lithe, long lines of his body when he turns. There’s a look in his eye - precise, complete focus - just before he throws each dart. 

Garak is a little bit obsessed. 

And then Julian turns his head when he plucks the darts from the board. His eyes glint in the light when they meet Garak’s across the bar, and his smile softens. 

_ That isn’t pity,  _ he thinks. 

_ That’s just Julian.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pining that advances into Just A Giant Crush - we are getting pretty close now


	22. Comfortable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More drunken pining, and Julian has an important conversation with Odo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for drinking, referenced homophobia

The thing about being irrevocably in love with someone is that his most powerful instinct is to never say anything. The possibility of rejection looms so large that broaching the topic is terrifying. 

Julian is in an even more difficult position. He is in love with someone who he is 90% sure is also in love with him. Rejection isn’t the issue. 

Garak is the issue. 

The issue is doing it, and doing it wrong. The last thing he wants is to hurt Garak because he couldn’t get his words straight and said the wrong thing. 

The issue is also that he drank a little bit too much at Quark’s, and it’s making him warm and fuzzy and a bit less like controlling his more embarrassingly flirtatious urges. The promenade is a liminal space at night, empty of people except those coming to and from the bar. 

He leans against Garak as they walk. He doesn’t need to, technically, but it’s nice and he’s willing to play up how drunk he is if it gives him a pretext to touch Garak without being invasive or deliberate. 

“You should have played,” he complains to Garak. 

“I’m not sure the Chief would appreciate me invading his private game.” 

“He wouldn’t mind! Well, he might, if you kept beating him.” 

“I don’t think that’s very likely, do you?” 

“You said you were good at throwing sharp things. Like knives. Oh, can you show me how to do that?” 

He pictures Garak teaching him how to throw sharp knives and do all sorts of fascinating spy things, perhaps correcting his posture, then stops picturing it very quickly because the effects the image had were rather powerful. 

“Julian, you have enhanced reflexes. You can hit the middle of that target from across the room.” 

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean I know how to do everything. I still need to practice.” 

He stumbles a little when they get to the turbolift and Garak steadies him.

“Would walking be one of the things you still need practice at?” 

The hum of the lift buzzes in his head and his fingers. There’s a rail to hold onto, but he holds onto Garak instead, keeping a grip on his arm and shoulder. Garak’s hand rests against his back. 

The lights cast shadows beneath the scaled ridges on his face. They shine on waxy scars by his ear and jaw that were once dark, and are now slowly turning white.

He’s  _ so... _

It would be so easy to just kiss him now. 

He’s close enough. 

Julian already pressed up against his side. 

But. 

_ But. _

He can’t. 

He’s drunk, which makes him more confident, and which also makes it more likely that if he does something, Garak will write it off as Julian making a drunken mistake. Which isn’t what he wants. He wants to kiss him, and have Garak kiss him back, and mean it. 

It’s an effort to get back to their quarters. 

He’s never taken a proper look at the carpets in the Habitat Ring. They usually pass quietly under his feet without so much as a thank-you. But they do deserve proper recognition. They’re very retro, very 1990s.

His attempt to afford the carpets the respect they deserve ends with him missing one of the junctions between the bulkheads, and he trips over the ledge. 

“Careful, doctor.” 

Strong arms around his waist pull him upright again. He leans back into Garak’s chest with a sigh. It’s comfortable to be in his arms. He’d like to continue doing that, please. 

“Maybe you should just carry me. It’s not that far.” 

“I don’t think my back would thank me,” comes Garak’s slightly awkward voice behind his ear. “Unless you intend to trip over your own feet for the rest of the way?”

“Spoilsport. Why aren’t you as drunk as me? That isn’t fair.” 

“Decades of experience,” Garak says. He unlocks the door to their quarters and guides Julian inside. 

“I’ve got decades of experience. I’m thirty-three!” 

“And unless you’ve been drinking heavily for all thirty-three of those years, I have considerably more experience than you. Bedroom?” 

Julian turns to stare at him. He’s fairly sure Garak didn’t mean what he just said in the way Julian heard it, but he’s not sure what other meaning he had. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I meant, would you like to be  _ assisted  _ to your bedroom?” Garak says, looking away, a slight look of embarrassment taking over his face. 

“But  _ you’re  _ sleeping in it,” Julian reminds him. 

“I have rearranged things, as promised.” 

“Oh.” It takes a Herculean effort not to tell Garak that he’d rather just share with him instead of swapping beds. It would be so much more comfortable that way. “Well, that’s fine. But I don’t want to go to bed, actually.” 

“No?”

“No.” He folds his arms. “Actually, I want another drink.” 

He’s got some whiskey somewhere that Miles gave him for his last birthday. He has to open a few cupboards before he finds it. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Garak asks, sounding not unlike a scolding parent. 

“Do you want some, or not?” Julian asks. 

Garak glances between him and the bottle with raised brows. 

“Only if you don’t expect me to escort you to the infirmary afterwards.” 

“Don’t be silly. I know how to control myself.” 

***

Julian is drunk. Extraordinarily so. 

He’s laying upside-down on the sofa, giggling at half the things Garak says. Sometimes he seems to laugh purely at the concept of being up-side down.

“And I told him, you know, I said, Miles…” 

It’s not that Garak is much more sober in comparison, but he’s been a lot more drunk than this many, many times before, and he’s used to controlling himself. 

“I said, Miles...what was I saying?” 

Garak leans forward in his chair. He feels the room tilt with him, and has to blink several times to clear his vision. 

“You were saying something to Chief O’Brien. I’m not sure why, since we haven’t seen him in hours.”

“No, I was talking to you,” Julian exasperatedly says. “I was telling you what I was telling him.”

“You weren’t doing a very good job of it.” 

“Don’t be rude, I’ll get there in a second.” Julian pushes himself up, his hand slips and he slumps onto his back again, giggling. He tips his head back and meets Garak’s gaze upside-down. His smile shifts from a laugh to something softer and more affectionate, and it becomes harder to look at without smiling back. The column of his neck shifts when he swallows, exposed by the way he’s tilting his head. 

Julian’s expression becomes more mischievous. It’s annoyingly endearing. 

“What is it?” Garak asks. It’s a reflex. It’s his nature to deflect emotion as far away from him as possible. 

“I’ve just witnessed a very rare phenomenon,” Julian says, very serious. “Now, I might have been wrong, but it’s not entirely impossible that what I saw was in fact what I thought...that I was seeing.” Less serious, more drunk.

He smiles as he leans further forwards to indulge the doctor’s game. 

“Which was?” 

“There it is again. Incredible. I shall have to write a paper about that.”

Garak frowns, feeling warm and oddly nervous. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what it is you’re finding so remarkable about my appearance, doctor.” 

Julian points at him, victorious. “You smiled.” 

The observation makes him feel odd. 

“I smile all the time,” he points out. 

“But you don’t  _ mean  _ it,” Julian exasperatedly says, and manages to push himself upright without falling over this time. “I could probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you smile because you were actually comfortable and enjoying yourself.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand your point,” Garak says, leaning back, cautious. He recalls those moments quite vividly too, if only because Julian was almost always the reason he was smiling, and to do so without having to force himself was such a foreign feeling that it stuck in his head. 

“My  _ point _ is,” Julian begins rather dramatically, and then sags. “I forgot my point. It’ll come back in a minute.” 

“There’s no rush. By all means, take your time.” 

There’s a bit of Chief O’Brien’s whiskey left, and he pours it into his glass to give himself something to do besides thinking about how Julian can see behind more of his masks than he’d like.

“Oh!” Julian clicks his fingers. “Right, yes. My point is that it’s nice. I like it.” 

Garak sips more whiskey. This is now the only thing he feels comfortable doing. The burn is more of a warm tingle by this point in the evening, when the alcohol has numbed his head.

Julian crosses his legs on the couch and smiles sadly at him. “And it wouldn’t be any less nice if it was a bit less rare,” he adds, and Garak has no idea what to do about that. What does an ordinary person say to something like that? Do humans say things like that to their friends? Or is it just a 'Julian' thing? 

Julian slumps backwards and blows out a loud sigh. 

“I thought you were dead, you know,” he says. The humour has evaporated from his voice. 

“That must have been a great tragedy,” Garak dryly says.

Julian frowns. “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know. Make it seem like you’re not important.” 

“In the grand scheme of the universe-” 

“But I’m not talking about the  _ grand scheme.”  _ Julian cuts over him, with a voice not unlike a petulant adolescent. “You’re important to me.” 

Julian has taken to telling him things like this as though Garak is supposed to know how to reply to them. Does he expect a confession? Surely not. Julian is irrationally attached to the truth, but he isn’t cruel enough to force out a truth like  _ that.  _

“Thank you, doctor,” he settles on saying. 

“Julian.” 

Garak swallows. He’s been using Julian’s given name far too freely. It only started when he was out of his mind and couldn’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality. 

But apparently Julian doesn't mind.

“Julian,” Garak repeats. The most damning thing would be if Garak offered his name in return. 

He doesn’t.

He _can't._

He just smiles slightly at the doctor, and lets the warm buzz of drunkenness wash back over him. 

He is terrified of allowing himself to become comfortable in the routine that establishes itself in the next few days. One of them - usually him - wakes the other by making subtle yet insistent noises in the bathroom when they get up. He gets to see Julian with messy hair and rumpled pyjamas when he shuffles out of the bedroom. 

(The bunk in the living room smells like him, the way his bed used to before Garak used it for weeks.)

Their morning routines overlap at breakfast, if Julian isn’t rushing off to a briefing or some science experiment. If he isn’t, he usually rushes off right after. 

Once alone, Garak sits for a while repairing the final piece of Molly’s clothing, then packs up and moves to his shop. Business is about as slow as usual, so once he’s set aside Molly’s jumpsuit he can return to constructing a new set of clothes for himself. 

He puts away the pieces as soon as anyone comes in. It’s like creating a new mask or a new set of armour; he doesn’t want anyone to see how it works. How he works. The only person who has seen them is Julian. 

This new coat he’s working on is black and silver, warmly padded against the cold with a collar that covers his ridges up to the neck. He hasn’t felt like wearing bright colours in a long time; not since his six months’ imprisonment, now he thinks about it. Since then it’s been muted colours or just black, especially on the  _ Defiant. _

It’s been a long time since he’s truly put effort into pretending he doesn’t belong in the shadows. 

***

“Constable, might I ask you a few questions about Cardassians?” 

Odo is his best bet at a good answer about anything relating to Cardassian culture. He worked for them for years, and he doesn’t have Kira’s rage. Dax might know a little more, since she has three hundred years of life behind her, but he doesn’t want to open this conversation with her yet. 

Miles is not even on the table. 

“I should think you’d know as much about them as anybody by now, doctor,” Odo dryly says, looking up from his padd. “What is it you want to know?” 

“It’s a question about their social norms, really. Do they have a problem with same-sex relationships?” 

“A prejudice against them, you mean,” Odo says, watching him curiously. 

“Yes.” 

“From what I gather, they’re considered frivolous and vulgar in comparison to heterosexual couplings. No self-respecting soldier on Terok Nor would have been open with an affair with a man the way he would be with taking on a comfort woman, for example.” 

“It’s to do with family, isn’t it? They don’t see a couple as valid unless they can marry and have children?” 

“That is the sort of thing I heard. What’s all this about, doctor?” 

He gets the feeling Odo might already have an inkling. 

“Oh, I’m just curious.” 

“Curiosity can be a dangerous thing,” Odo warns. “Especially when it involves poking around a Cardassian’s secrets. Do you think Garak would appreciate you asking these questions?” 

“No, probably not. But I’m not asking because I want to invade his privacy, or something. The opposite. I want to find a way to make him comfortable with…” 

“With what?” Odo watches him. 

Julian sighs. He can trust Odo, and he’s one of the few people he thinks Garak might trust, too. 

“Well...with me.” 

Odo raises a brow and sets down his padd. 

“And you’ve come to me because you want to know...what? If your interests are compatible? If, in my role as Chief of Security on this station, I’m willing to share the details of an individual’s private life simply because you’d like to know them?” 

“What? No. I wouldn’t want you to tell me anything personal about Garak that you know that he wouldn’t want me to know. He wouldn’t forgive either of us. I’m interested in the culture, that’s all. And I’m asking you because if I went to Kira with the same question, she’d bite my head off.” 

Odo concedes by tilting his head. It reminds him of the way Garak moves his head sometimes; he wonders whether Odo picked up those mannerisms from the Cardassians. 

“Well, Cardassians like to emphasise their duty, as I’m sure you know. To their people first, but also to their families,” Odo explains. “A man with unconventional sexual preferences has a duty to keep them to himself, otherwise he risks bringing shame to his entire family. If he’s caught indulging in those desires, he is seen to be selfish, and to have failed in his duty to uphold his family’s honour. The family typically disowns him.” 

“I see,” Julian says. 

Garak is already exiled from Cardassian society, and he doesn’t have any family to dishonour. Unless there’s someone other than Tain, someone back on Cardassia. A mother? Could Garak have _ siblings?  _ He always gives off such an aura of separation, isolation -  _ loneliness  _ \- that Julian can’t imagine him with a family. 

“Have you ever...I mean, on the station. During the Occupation. Did you see that happen?” 

Odo fixes him with a long, penetrating gaze, and doesn’t answer. 

“If I were you, doctor, I’d be very careful with who I spoke to about this. Whatever you might think you know about Garak, if that assumption spreads across the station, it will affect him.” 

Julian nods gravely. He doesn’t want people talking to Garak about a relationship they don’t even have yet. 

“I understand.” 

“I’m not sure you do. Do you know how many people have come into the security office in the past month, demanding Garak be arrested and put in a holding cell because he’s a threat to station security?” 

“But he hasn’t done anything wrong! They should know that by now.” 

“Whatever Garak may or may not have done during the Occupation, or during this war, doesn’t matter to anyone. He is still the sole remaining face of the Cardassians on this station.” Odo says, getting more worked up than usual. Julian realises that Odo probably knows exactly how that feels. 

“There are people here who are not interested in justice. They are interested in acting out whatever revenge they can for the pain they suffered at the hands of the Cardassians. If even a small number of them catch wind of the sorts of things you’re implying about him, what do you think will happen?”

“They’ll use it to hurt him,” Julian says. He gets enough dirty looks from Starfleet officers who know about his genetic engineering to know that he doesn’t want whatever insults Garak faces here to get worse, especially now. 

“And what’s more, he will know it came from you.” 

“Yes, I know, he’d trace it back to me and my big mouth. I get the message." 

“He won’t have to trace it back to you,” Odo flatly says. “Because I’ll tell him myself.” 

“Oh. Right.” 

Odo breaks off his stare and picks up his padd again. 

“May I offer some advice, doctor?” 

“Please.” 

“If your intention is truly to make Garak comfortable with this proposition, then I suggest you make your ‘desires’ known in private.” Odo doesn’t use air quotes, but their disparaging presence is felt around the word nonetheless. “An evening dinner in Quark’s serenaded by tales from medical school might suffice for your usual romantic interludes, but in this case...” 

“Yes, I get the picture. I’ll keep it discreet. No grand declarations of love on the Promenade.” 

“That would be extremely inadvisable.” 

“Thank you, Odo.” 

Odo huffs and goes back to work.

Given Julian’s chronic foot-in-mouth disease, he’s glad that he knows what  _ not  _ to do, at least. That doesn’t help him with what he  _ should  _ do, and how, and when, but it’s a start. 

He needs to talk to Keiko. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slowly getting closer......


	23. Getting Back to Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slowly, Garak feels things return to a kind of normal.

Unless his hyperawareness is limited by something inconvenient like a phaser wound or a coma, Garak usually wakes at the slightest noise or movement in the vicinity. A whispered voice commanding a dim light to flick on in the bedroom is enough to wake him. Garak listens for movement, expecting Julian to get up and use the bathroom. 

Nothing. 

Then, a sharp breath. An aborted noise, stifled. A sort of whine. 

Garak slides out of bed, allowing his steps to land with noise rather than his usual instinct of silence, in order to give Julian fair warning before he reaches the bedroom. 

“Julian?” 

He’s sitting curled up in a ball, blankets and pillow discarded. He glances up at Garak and wipes his eyes. 

“Are you alright?” Julian asks. Of course he asks that. Tears gathered in his eyes, voice tense and shaking, he asks if _Garak_ is alright. 

“I’m fine. I was about to ask you.” 

“Oh, just a stupid dream. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Is there something I can do?” 

He wants nothing more than to touch him, to soothe him the way Julian has with him. He’s afraid, though. He’s always afraid of appearing predatory, of pushing his desire for touch onto Julian and taking advantage of him. 

“No, it’s fine.” Julian says it a little too quickly to be believable. Garak doesn’t move. Julian glances at him, embarrassed. “Well, um. Kukalaka.” 

“Ah.” 

The bear. Julian keeps it on the shelf in the living room. Garak retrieves it, careful not to damage the worn-out creature, and hands it to him. 

“It looks to be in great need of a repair job, if not a deep clean,” Garak points out, sensing that this is one of those moments where approaching Julian’s distress head-on will only make it worse. “I’m insulted you haven’t employed my services at least to fortify the poor thing’s stitches.” 

Julian snorts a bit, and wipes his face. Garak produces a tissue from his sleeve and hands it over silently.

The bedroom is too small to stand awkwardly and converse, so Garak risks sitting on the bed, muscles tense in case Julian asks him to leave at once. He doesn’t. He just gives Garak a watery smile and holds the bear to his chest.

“The stitches are sentimental,” Julian says. “And he wouldn’t be the same if you cleaned him and fixed him up.”

“He’d be in less danger of falling apart.” 

“That’s not the point. It’s...the texture of him is important.” Julian strokes one of its ears, which looks very worn out, between his fingers. “And the smell. Yes, he’s dirty and he’s got holes in and there’s stuffing coming out of the edges, but if you took away all the flaws, you’d take away what made him special.” 

There’s a metaphor in there, between Julian’s gritted teeth. As far as Garak knows, Richard Bashir is still in prison. 

“I see.” 

“Not exactly the most grown-up thing, I know,” Julian adds. He folds his arms over the bear, hiding him away. “There was a time when I was a teenager when I tried to grow up and throw him away, but I couldn’t do it.” 

Garak remembers what Keiko told him about Molly’s clothes. She could have replicated new ones, but they wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps it’s a human sentiment. He doesn’t quite understand it. In Tain’s house, showing an attachment to something was a sure way to determine that if he ever made a mistake, that thing would be taken away. 

“You keep him on a shelf instead of in your bed in a continued effort to appear more ‘grown-up’,” Garak posits. 

“Not really working, though, is it?” Julian says, wiping his nose with the tissue. 

Garak, who has recently experienced the torment of crying in front of another person, as well as the additional torture of admitting to needing _comfort_ while doing the crying, understands that this is a very embarrassing and awkward experience on both ends. 

“There are very few people I respect as much as I respect you,” he carefully says. “The fact that you own this- ah- creature- does not diminish that.” 

“Even now you’ve caught me crying into him?” 

“I’m hardly in a place to judge you for emotional outbursts.”

Julian smiles slightly at that. “Maybe not.” 

He crumples the tissue in his hand and looks down at the floor, his eyes still full of the dark emotion of his dream. Garak longs to touch him, even just his shoulder, but it will feel predatory, condescending. There’s a glass wall preventing him from doing it. 

“I dreamed I was replaced again,” Julian says, after a while. “Only this time no-one came for me, and the changeling- it used my face to kill my friends. And even when it was hurting you, none of you realised it wasn’t me. You all thought I was just evil, that I’d snapped like Khan did. None of you realised I wasn’t there.” 

Garak takes a minute to realise that Julian is referring to him as though he is simply another one of his friends. He considers Garak on the same level as Dax and O’Brien. Which means he considers Garak equally guilty for not realising that he was replaced by a changeling in the first place. He follows Julian’s gaze to an empty spot of carpet. There is nothing he can say to atone for that mistake, in a dream or in the real world. 

He should have noticed. 

“I pretended you were there,” he absently says. He almost doesn’t realise what a horrible, twisted thing it is to admit when Julian already knows and probably doesn’t want more reminders of Garak’s obsession thrown in his face. “In the cell. We need conversation, my people. And I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather talk to than you.” 

“You hallucinated me,” Julian says. Garak can’t tell whether his tone is one of pity or horror. 

“I hallucinated many things. You were the only one I wished was real.” 

Julian wears a complicated expression. Garak isn’t sure what he wants him to feel about this. 

To spare him the discomfort of having to answer, he stands. 

“Garak.” He glances back, and Julian reaches out to pat his thigh. He hates how much he loves the brief contact. “I missed you, too.” 

Garak bows his head, and leaves Julian to his bear. He feels oddly like he's been given permission for something. 

Not many people want Garak anywhere near their children. But when Keiko brings Molly with her to pick up her clothes the next morning, she shows no sign of discomfort at their proximity. She’s even holding Kirayoshi as Molly wanders around his shop, pulling at her collar as though it irritates her. She peers at clothes on mannequins and hangers, and then stops in front of the counter, staring up at Garak. 

“Good afternoon, Molly,” he greets, as politely as he can. 

“Hello!” 

“I believe I know what you’ve come for today.” 

He puts on a show of searching around under the counter before producing a stack of Molly’s mended clothes. 

She gasps. “You fixed them!” 

“I did my best.”

“Can I get changed now?” Molly picks at her collar again and looks pleadingly back at her mother, who bounces Kirayoshi gently on her hip. 

“If you really, really want to,” Keiko says. 

“There is a changing room just for that purpose,” Garak says, gesturing towards the curtained-off room. Molly squeaks, reaches up to grab the whole stack and scurries into the changing room with it. 

His experience with children before coming to the station is incredibly limited. His former profession - thankfully, given the kinds of things he had to do - didn’t allow him much contact with them, and he has none of the nieces and nephews that a more traditional Cardassian family has. 

Keiko smiles fondly at Kirayoshi while Molly changes behind the curtain.

“She’s been asking me non-stop every day this week: ‘Mommy, is my jumpsuit ready yet?’ It’s her favourite thing in the whole world. I’d bet you anything that she comes out wearing it with a huge smile on her face.” 

“I certainly understand the personal attachment one can have to well-fitted clothes,” he says. 

The doors slide open, admitting Julian into the shop. 

“Hi, Julian!” Keiko cheerfully says. 

“Hello, Keiko. Hello, Yoshi.” Julian smiles a beautiful, kind smile at the baby. “If you’re here, I can only assume…” 

As predicted, Molly bursts through the curtain, proudly sporting her blue and purple jumpsuit, grinning. 

“Look, Mommy, it’s all fixed!” 

“There she is!” Julian exclaims. 

“Oh, you look wonderful, Molly,” Keiko says. “Come here, let me see.” 

Molly runs up to her and spins around. Garak can see the places he’s sewn holes together, but he expects Molly won’t be able to tell the difference. 

“Happy?” Keiko asks. Molly nods enthusiastically. “Great. Are you going to say ‘thank you?’” 

Molly hops around to stare up at Garak. “Thank you!” 

“You’re very welcome,” Garak says, momentarily stunned. Molly doesn’t know what he is or what he’s done. She just knows that he fixed her favourite clothes. 

Keiko insists on paying far more than Garak would have asked for his time, and he’s too off-kilter from the whole interaction to argue properly. 

It’s all so…

He can’t put his finger on what’s putting him out of sorts.

Keiko gently ushers Molly out, and the young girl turns to wave at him and Julian as the doors close behind her. Garak sighs as part of his constant tension in social interactions bleeds out, now he’s alone with Julian again. 

He realises the doctor is watching him, smiling slightly, his warm eyes crinkled at the edges. 

He looks...proud? Pleased? 

“What are you so looking cheerful about, doctor?” Garak asks. He doesn’t like when people seem to be pleased with him. It’s usually a precursor to disappointment. 

“Things are getting back to normal, I suppose. Lunch?” 

_Normal._

That’s what this abnormal feeling is. Things are getting back to normal.

All of a sudden, the idea of touching Julian doesn’t feel like an invasion. He allows his hand to finally act out the desire he’s been holding back since Julian came in, and rests it on his arm. It feels normal. 

“I’d be delighted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit of a shorter one this time, trying to have some more soft content!


	24. Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian comes up with a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild cw for vague negative body image references, drinking

“I think I’ve figured out how to do it,” Julian says. “Tell him, that is.” 

Even saying out loud to Keiko that he’s going to do it makes his stomach twist in anticipation.

“I’m going to give him a letter. That way I can plan out everything I want to say without panicking and saying something stupid, and he doesn’t have to respond right away. And there’s no way he can read it and think I just want to be friends.”

“That’s sweet, Julian,” Keiko says. She seems to have turned into his relationship counsellor in recent weeks. “Very old-school.”

“It does seem a bit _Pride and Prejudice._ It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a medical degree must be in want of a boyfriend.” 

Keiko laughed. 

“I think he’d like that. He seems like a romantic.” 

“You think?” 

“Of course! What are you going to say?” 

He deflates at that. 

“I don’t know. I haven’t written it yet.”

“Ah. So that’s your next problem.” 

There’s always another problem. Especially with Garak. 

“Well, I know what I want to say, but I don’t know how to say it. I want to get it right, you know? One badly worded sentence and it could all go wrong.” 

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just tell him how you feel.” 

“Easier said than done.” Especially when it comes to a man who has told him on more than one occasion that sentiment is the greatest weakness of all. 

He goes through the day nervous. A lot of his time is taken up with patients from a Romulan science vessel who ran into some kind of fungus in the Gamma Quadrant that their medical officer couldn’t keep contained on her own. 

But as soon as his concentration is no longer required, it drifts back to the letter he’s writing in his head. 

He can’t even decide how to start it. He always calls Garak _Garak,_ but surely it’s odd to use only his surname in a love letter. Even Darcy started calling Elizabeth _Elizabeth_ at some point. Is he Darcy? He’d like to think he’s Darcy. He’d look quite good in the outfits, at least. 

That’s beside the point. 

The point is that he’s never used Garak’s first name. Can he go straight in with the bold-faced intimacy of _Elim_ when he doesn’t know for sure that this isn’t going to go terribly, horribly, disastrously wrong? It feels like using a teacher’s first name, or a commanding officer. It’s in the same unnatural vein as calling Sisko _Benjamin_ like Dax does. 

But then, Garak uses his first name these days. 

_But_ he hasn’t asked Julian to use his. 

But maybe _that’s_ because it’s been so long that to do it now would hold meaning that Garak seems to be trying to avoid. 

Even when Julian decides what to do about that, he spends hours mentally typing words and deleting them, typing sentences and deleting them, rearranging everything and scrapping it and starting over. 

Asking someone out has never been so complicated. 

But that’s another thing: he’s not just asking Garak out. They’re not even remotely in the area of casual acquaintances testing the waters with a few dates to see what happens, or he’d have done that already. He knows what he wants to happen, more or less. He wants something deep and real, the feeling he gets when Garak looks at him sometimes and truly _sees_ him like no-one else does. And he thinks Garak wants that too, but is too uncomfortable and afraid to make the first move. 

He wants to kiss him - properly, this time, without any misunderstandings - and hold him, and be held. It would be lovely to be held by him. 

(And the rest, the things that wake him in a sweat in the middle of the night and he has to deal discreetly with in the bathroom, of course he wants that. But he’s not deluding himself that it will be quick and easy. There’s so much tension and shame in Garak’s body language whenever he allows Julian to touch him even platonically that it will take time to build up to other things.)

And he wants to be able to tell him he loves him. Properly, unambiguously, no fine print. Just say it. 

So he just has to write all that down in an artful manner without sounding too artificial or too forward or too reserved or too awkward. 

Simple. 

***

Garak spends most of the day constructing his coat. Setting in the sleeves is always the hardest part of constructing anything, so he’s putting it off. He spends hours planning and executing a specific, ornate embroidery on the hems and shoulders in shining silver thread that would have been exceptionally expensive if he hadn’t removed it from the vendor without paying. He’s just finishing off putting in a silken lining that’s supposed to trap heat when Julian pops in. It’s not lunchtime. 

“Hello, Garak.” There’s something awkward about him immediately. He’s avoiding something, or looking for something. 

“Doctor. Come for a new suit?” 

“No, actually. Just a quick question. You can read Standard, can’t you?” Julian asks. He sounds as though he’s trying to be casual to cover up something else. For a moment Garak wonders if there’s a sign posted somewhere he hasn’t read, and is now about to be chastised for failure to adhere to a rule he hasn’t noticed. 

“Why? Is there going to be a test?” 

“Just wondering,” Julian quickly says. “So can you?”

“It would have been difficult to work for Starfleet if I couldn’t,” Garak points out. 

“Ah. Good.” Julian looks around. “So, do you speak any other languages?” 

“Several.” Garak doesn’t elaborate. He’s not fond of volunteering information about his skillset until strictly necessary. 

“Interesting. Good. Um. Well, that’s answered my question. I’d better…” Julian hurries out of his shop without much more conversation. 

Something is afoot. 

He lines the sleeves and submits to the fact that he’s going to have to put them in sooner or later. It seems like a job for tomorrow, since his hand is developing a strain that makes it painful to bend his fingers a certain way, but Julian’s behaviour is making him suspicious and he’d like more time to think about it. 

And he, like the doctor, tends to get tunnel vision about certain projects. He’s invested in this coat - perhaps overly so, but he’s long since abandoned the illusion that he’s a perfectly logical, unsentimental person - and he wants it finished. It’s a bizarre thought, but he wants this finished so he can have this armour to protect himself when he inevitably has to face some new misery. Julian’s rejection or another disaster in the war or Cardassia’s downfall. (His own death ranks low on the list of tragedies, but he’d at least like to be well-dressed when it happens.)

It’s like putting together a new costume, only this one is closer to the truth than the others he’s made. Black and silver and thickly lined to protect himself from the cold, with a few hidden pockets and a compartment in the sleeve to secrete a thin knife. 

By the time he’s put in the sleeves - correctly, despite his near-certainty that he’d have to rip out the stitches and do at least one of them again - his hand is cramping and the old wounds in his back are starting to strain. He tries to stretch out his hand on the way back to Julian’s quarters, with the coat slung over his arm, but moving it sends stabbing pains through his fingers, up his wrist and arm. 

Julian jumps off the sofa when Garak comes in. 

“Hello!” He looks surprised that Garak is here, like he’s forgotten that he’s staying here. There’s a padd in his hands that he presses to his chest, hiding the screen. 

“Good evening, doctor. Have I caught you at a bad time?” 

“No, I was just thinking. You alright?”

Julian’s discreet activity seems to be somewhat innocent; he’s embarrassed, rather than deeply ashamed of whatever it is he’s doing. 

Garak tilts his head. “Perfectly.” 

It is at that moment that his hand spasms and delivers a particularly unpleasant stab of pain, and he covers it by draping his coat over a chair. The last thing he needs is Julian worrying over him, _again,_ just when it seems as though he might be able to return to a facade of normality. 

“Can I convince you to come to the infirmary in the next few days so I can give you a proper examination?”

_Absolutely not._

The infirmary makes his skin crawl. It’s bright white and cramped and there’s no privacy whatsoever and it makes him feel naked. He might have to _be_ naked for a physical, which he loathes, and that’s the reason they _invented_ things like tricorders in the first place-

“As I said, I’m perfectly fine.” He makes his voice calm, level and polite. He feels the exact opposite of that. He would rather endure the stabbing pain in his hand, and the stiffness in the shoulder that kept dislocating in the prison cell, and the tight, straining feeling in the muscles of his back where the wounds healed badly than endure a visit to the infirmary. 

“We can do it here, if that helps,” Julian suggests. 

It only helps a little. Garak dislikes being scanned or touched or asked questions about his body and all the ways it’s slowing down and falling apart, and he _despises_ being seen without several carefully chosen layers of clothing. He doesn’t even like looking at himself in the few minutes it takes to undress, shower and get dressed again. How is he supposed to be comfortable letting someone else see him, let alone _Julian?_ He would be ever-so professional about it, but just makes it worse. 

“Garak.” Julian catches his attention again. “It’s important to make sure your body is healing properly. If there’s something wrong, it’s always better to catch it early.” 

Julian has that look on his face that says he’s going to keep asking and asking until Garak concedes, and unlike the days where he lived by himself, simply avoiding Julian until he gets the hint isn’t possible. 

The tightening in his chest doesn’t ease. 

“If you insist,” he says. 

“Thank you,” Julian says, fully sincere, as though being allowed to scan Garak is some kind of privilege he’s been afforded. “Is tomorrow morning alright? I can squeeze you in before my shift, and then it will all be over with." 

“That is as good a time as any.” 

He resigns himself to being uncomfortable and embarrassed for about half an hour tomorrow morning, and settles in to dread it for the rest of the evening. 

“That’s settled, then,” Julian nods, pleased. “Oh, Jadzia said she was going to wrangle Worf into having a night off work with some of the other crew. Do you want to come?” 

He carries on as though Garak is completely fine. This is usually the preferable route in conversations where Garak is not fine, but it’s an effort to gather himself back together in order to even consider what Julian is saying. 

“I would hate to intrude,” he says. 

He’s barely spoken to anyone besides Julian for weeks now. Keiko and Molly, yesterday. Odo, before that. And not in a social capacity. The idea makes him strangely nervous, but now he thinks about it, he realises he’s missed it. 

“Dax asked me to invite you,” Julian says. “It’s only a casual dinner in Quark’s.”

“Ah.” 

Garak does like Dax. And Worf only mildly disapproves of him, in a grudging, entertaining sort of way. And then again, there’s alcohol in Quark’s. 

“In that case, it would be rude to decline.” 

That’s apparently the right answer, because Julian beams at him. 

“Shall we go in about twenty minutes?” he asks, not really waiting for an answer before slipping into the bedroom with his padd still held close to his chest. 

“I suppose so.”

A dinner outing is an excuse to try the new coat, at least. 

There’s a burn scar he’s only recently noticed near his collarbone, and has only missed until this point because of his aforementioned dislike of looking at himself. He pulls the high collar further up his ridges so he’s certain it’s covered. There’s nothing to be done for the fading scars that litter his face, but the harsh black and silver coat makes him feel more at ease with them, like they’re simply part of the general appearance he’s put together.

The first line of defence between oneself and the outside world is a well-crafted image, and that is an area in which he has always excelled. 

***

Julian is immensely glad he brought Garak out with him. He’s lapping up Jadzia’s gossip about the station and replying with some of his own that Julian has no idea how he would have picked up. Worf chips in with the occasional deadpan remark, which is almost always gossip that even Julian hasn’t heard. 

Where does he get it from?

There’s a lull, and he realises Garak has gone quiet and still.

There are Romulans milling around by the stairwell, hands behind their backs, surveying the room with distaste. Garak stares at them, his body tense, his hand frozen around his glass. 

“You see those Romulans over there?” Garak quietly says, more of a murmur that only Julian was supposed to hear.. 

“Yes?” 

“Seven of them, yes?” 

He’s not sure why that is significant.

“Yes? They’re from the science vessel that docked this morning. Do you know them?”

Garak sighs in relief and sets down his glass very gently and quietly as though he expects it to shatter. 

“No. Thank you, doctor.”

Why would he need to ask Julian how many there were, unless-? 

Oh. 

He files that thought away for later, under the list of things he knows Garak has hallucinated in the past. Lieutenant Heret, Romulans, and himself. 

The rhythm of the table has been disrupted somewhat; Worf watches Garak suspiciously, while Jadzia has her eyes firmly on Julian. They exchange a look that Julian can only describe as meaningful. 

“So, Garak,” Jadzia says, and there’s a horrible, painful moment where Julian wonders if she’s going to do something awful like _ask how Garak is doing,_ which Garak viscerally hates and will deflect with varying levels of rudeness depending on his mood. “How do you feel about Iloja of Prim?” 

Julian barely restrains his sigh of relief. 

“Oh, he’s easily one of the greats of Cardassian poetry,” Garak says, sounding delighted to have been asked. “A fellow exile, as all the great artists are, of course. It’s rare to hear an outsider speak of him. Do you like his work?” 

“I liked the rebellious ones he wrote in the beginning, but I’m on the fence about his last collection,” Jadzia says, with a little so-so gesture of her hand. 

“Really? I thought it was his finest work. He wrote about Cardassia’s flaws not from a place of despair or pessimism but from love. He truly believed his home could improve, even to his last breath in exile. And _The Legacy of the Stone Arch_ is - in my humble opinion, of course - one of the greatest poems ever written by one of my people.” 

Jadzia nods in interest and says something about another poem she liked, while Julian's eyes glaze over and nearly drop out of his head. Garak, admitting not only that Cardassia has flaws but that he enjoys poetry that is _optimistic_ about repairing them?

“I met him once, you know," Jadzia says. "He had a terrible temper. Argued with Tobin all evening.” 

Garak raises his brow ridges. “I see. That’s several rumours satisfied, then. Did Dax...win the argument?” 

He says it like a euphemism, and it takes Julian a moment to realise that with Cardassian courting practices being what they are, it probably is. 

“I think he and Iloja settled on a mutual disagreement.” 

“I see.” There’s a look on his face, a kind of knowing smirk that Julian hasn’t seen him use in so long now that he’s captivated by it long after Garak’s expression shifts to a more innocent one. “Coincidentally, I believe I once met his great-great...great granddaughter at a dull diplomatic function on Cardassia II.” 

“I didn’t know you were a diplomat,” Julian says. Garak gives him a wide-eyed expression. 

“My dear, you overestimate me. I spent several months as a humble waiter at a conference centre. Now that you mention it, she also had quite a temper.” 

“Rude to the waiter? That’s a no-no, even on Cardassia, isn’t it?” 

“Oh, anything goes at these sorts of functions,” Garak says, with another of those smiles. 

He starts going off on another anecdote about a famous diplomat that Julian hasn’t heard of but is certain - because of the way Garak tends to tell stories - was assassinated. He just settles in to listen to Garak talk. 

There’s life creeping back into the exaggerated movements of his hands as he recounts a tray being knocked dramatically from his grasp by a drunken legate who was found dead the next morning, along with the diplomat he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with. 

If there’s one thing Garak is capable of in any situation, no matter the stakes, it’s telling a good story. Julian always admired that about him. He himself isn’t much good at it aside from things that are absolutely true, or close enough to the truth that he only has to amend a few things, but Garak delights in it. He lights up when he gets to tell them all about Iloja’s great-great-great-granddaughter and the scandals that poured out of one party and into another. 

Julian realises, perhaps several years too late, that this is someone who - despite being almost violently private about his emotions - thrives off being able to talk to people. He looks utterly content leaning forward over the table, speaking in a dramatic, hushed voice about things that _probably_ didn’t happen, but the way he describes them makes them feel real anyway. 

No wonder he finds exile so miserable. 

He looks better now. There’s a healthier shape to his face now than the gaunt, pallid Garak he found on the floor of that prison. Still tired-looking, and a little twitchy, but he’s better. The way he smiles wickedly at Julian when he recounts something blatantly untrue tells him that. 

Jadzia happens to catch Julian’s eye and he realises several things at once. 

One: he’s been smiling soppily at Garak. 

Two: he’s been smiling soppily while _admiring Garak_ for quite a while; the beautiful jacket he made himself, the way he talks, the way he moves, and wondering what his ridges would feel like beneath his fingers. He can only partly blame his drink for that. 

Three: he and Garak are seated on one side of the table, and Dax and Worf on the other, like a double date. 

And four: Jadzia’s knowing smile tells him she noticed him doing this quite a while before he did. He ducks his head and drinks to avoid having to make his face do something other than the thing it’s doing right now. She’s going to be insufferable about this tomorrow. She’s going to make all sorts of comments about why he _really_ asked Garak to move in and wasn’t that a nice _date_ they all had last night? 

Julian must avoid that at all costs, and he absolutely has to avoid the disastrous event that she mentions any of this to _Garak,_ or even so much as looks in his direction with the thought in her head. 

The letter sits at the back of his mind, not quite finished. How can something like that ever be finished?

 _J_ _ust tell him how you feel,_ Keiko said, and he has to keep reminding himself that. Perfectionism can lead to stagnation. It doesn't need to be perfect, it just needs to say what he wants it to say.

 _Tomorrow,_ he decides, as he watches Garak. _I’ll tell him tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is the one we've been waiting for! 
> 
> ALSO! the little scene with Garak and Dax at the end was inspired by that one scene with the Cardassian scientists in Destiny and  
> [this post](https://trillscienceofficer.tumblr.com/post/615128986258931712/tparadox-trillscienceofficer-star-trek-ds9) on tumblr.


	25. Getting the Message Across

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian confesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an incredibly long chapter, because I didn't want to break the scene up. 
> 
> (also i totally made up the concerns about the dermal regenerator, don't come after me)
> 
> cw for some body image stuff and general self-hatred, internalised homophobia

Garak rises earlier than usual to check on his plants. He checks the soil, the texture of leaves and petals, the new buds. The routine forces him to slow down and calm down at least a little if he wakes up buzzing with anxiety, shapes shifting in the corner of his eye. 

He sits on the bunk and stares resolutely at a wide-leafed plant while Julian scans him. 

“I know if I ask you how you’re feeling, you’re going to say you’re fine and leave it at that,” he says, examining the readings on his tricorder. 

“I am fine. It is not entirely outside the realm of possibility,” Garak says, to himself more than Julian. 

“No, but I don’t trust you to tell me if you weren’t.” 

“Then we’re at an impasse.”

Julian looks at his readings again and sighs.

“Where is the pain worst?” He asks, after a while. Carefully worded so that Garak cannot simply answer ‘yes’, ‘no’, or ‘I’m fine’. 

“You assume I must be in pain,” Garak says, even more carefully. 

“Taking into account your age and the sheer number of times you’ve been seriously injured, yes. I think it’s safe to assume you’re in pain.” 

He is, but admitting it is another thing. Nothing good has ever come of another person knowing his weaknesses. Korva knew. She’s still out there somewhere. 

“What about your hand?” 

“What about it?” 

“Garak,” Julian sighs, constantly, irritatingly patient. 

“What? You ask questions you already know the answers to, and act disappointed when I don’t want to play along,” Garak snaps. “It hurts. Is that what you want to hear?” 

Julian raises a brow, but doesn’t snap back at him. He takes Garak’s hand very gently and scans it. His thumb brushes across Garak’s palm. A spark travels up his arm every time he feels Julian’s skin slide against his, as he tests the articulation of his fingers. 

It’s calming. He isn’t supposed to be calm when someone is scanning him and asking him questions, but he can’t help it. Perhaps Julian knows the physiological effects of touching his hand.

“I don’t need to scan you to tell you what the problem is,” Julian says. “Overwork. The stiffness here-” he demonstrates the difficulty Garak is having in bending his fingers without pain- “is going to become a permanent problem if you’re not more careful about how long you spend working with your hand in a restricted position. You know that, I’m sure, but maybe if I remind you every now and then, you’ll actually put some thought into looking after yourself.” 

Garak doesn’t have the time for that sort of thing. If he’s alive, well-dressed and not in excruciating pain, he considers that a success. 

Julian plucks some ghastly medical instrument from his bag and holds Garak’s hand out still while he runs it over the afflicted bones and joints. The pain eases, then turns to numbness. He can flex his fingers again without feeling like he’s going to be stuck in that position forever. 

“Better?” 

“It would seem that way,” Garak reluctantly says. 

“Good. Let’s have a look at your shoulder, then.” Julian looks expectantly at him. 

Oh. 

This is what he’s been dreading: taking off his clothes. Last time he was undressed in front of Julian he was half-dead on the floor, covered in blood and hallucinating. That is not an experience he’s keen to repeat. 

He reluctantly unfastens his coat and pushes it off with a wince when his injured shoulder moves in the wrong way. He glances up at Julian, who doesn’t move. He’s expecting  _ more.  _

The idea of showing his bare skin makes him physically ill, but what choice does he have? It would be worse to admit that to Julian. 

He pulls his remaining two layers over his head in a single motion and tries to shut down the pounding, irrational anxiety. Julian isn’t going to hurt him. He’s just performing his insufferable duty as a doctor. 

He’s hyperaware of every scar he’s now revealed, ugly craggy things that break up the pattern of his scales. He’s aware of the way he looks in comparison to a taller, leaner Cardassian with stronger features, and of the way his scales are still dry and flaky in places because he’s too tired to take proper care of them. 

He’s aware that, even though the voices have dulled to distant whispers on most days, he can still hear a litany of them cry out that he’s disgusting. 

None of this matters to Julian, of course. He’s just doing his job. Garak is only his patient. He probes at the sore area of Garak’s shoulder. His hand is warm and gentle, nearly hot compared to the chill in the air, and it would be lovely if it were not for the fact that the only reason Julian touches him at all is because he’s just another broken thing to fix. 

“As I thought,” Julian says, in an ‘I told you so’ kind of voice. “You’ve been putting too much strain on your shoulder as well. It’s swollen here.”

Garak doesn’t have anything to say. What is he supposed to say to Julian when he’s touching his skin like that? 

“You do know that when something starts to hurt, that’s a sign that you should probably stop doing whatever is causing the pain?” Julian says. 

_ It doesn’t matter, _ he wants to scream. He doesn’t  _ care. _ He deserves to be in pain. 

“I’ll bear that in mind.” 

Julian passes one of his many instruments around his shoulder and the pain eases, leaving a numb, cool feeling under his skin. 

“Try moving it now. Gently, mind you.” 

Garak rolls his shoulder and finds it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did, though it still feels weak. 

“Better?” Julian asks, looking irritatingly smug. Garak inclines his head.

“Good. Look, I can give you an analgesic cream and some painkillers that will control the inflammation in your hand and shoulder on a daily basis, but they aren’t going to do much for you unless you stop putting so much strain on yourself.” 

Garak frowns at him. “I’m not putting any strain on myself,” he says.

“How long were you sewing yesterday?” 

“I...don’t recall.” He’d been fixated on finishing his coat. He wishes he was wearing it now, to have some protection from Julian’s gaze. 

“That means it was too long,” Julian says. 

“Perhaps,” Garak concedes, knowing full well that he’s likely to do the same thing again by the end of the week. “Is that all?”

“I’d like to take a quick look at your back, too.” 

Garak swallows the dread he feels at ever having to turn his back, let alone bare and exposed like this, like he was in the cell. 

“Is there any pain here?” Julian asks. He explores the edges of the thick scars there with scientific detachment. 

“No.” 

No-one has touched his bare skin here since the Jem’Hadar.

“Are you sure?” 

“Completely. Is that everything?” 

“Well, I thought we might look at removing these. I left the scar tissue here when I first treated you because your body was already trying to heal itself in so many other places that forcing rapid skin regeneration would have been dangerous. Now you’re not on the brink of death, it should be safe to start removing these, a little bit at a time.”

“Why not all at once?” 

“They’re quite deep. The muscles beneath your skin here were torn in some places.” His hand passes over a raised scar on his lower back that gives out a constant, dull pain beneath the surface. “And there’s so many of them that I’m wary of using the regenerator over such a large area. A few sessions over a few weeks would be enough to remove them safely.” 

_ Weeks.  _

Weeks of dreading the next time he has to expose himself and have Julian look at him like an open wound. He was willing to put up with one morning of humiliation, but weeks? 

He needs this to be over. 

Now. 

“No, thank you, doctor. That won’t be necessary. A few scrapes don’t bother me.” 

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not as though anyone is going to see them,” Garak says, and bitterness accidentally spills out into it, and that might be the most pathetic thing he’s ever said. 

Julian looks at him for a moment with a calculating expression that makes him feel like he’s being diagnosed. 

“Something I’ve learned from being a doctor is that a big part of healing is allowing yourself to heal. And sometimes we don’t want to do that. Maybe we’ve been hurting for so long that recovery is more frightening than the pain, and maybe, sometimes, we feel like we don’t deserve it.” 

_ I don’t,  _ Garak wants to say. He only wants to be functional so he can be useful. And Julian, selfless, self-sacrificing doctor that he is, is exactly the same. 

Garak looks away. “Are we finished here?” 

“There are a few other things I need to cover, but you can get dressed, yes.”

He puts his clothes back on at once. He has to force himself to move slowly, or Julian is going to notice how frantic he is about being covered. 

“Now, these, I can repair easily.” Julian gestures to the smaller scars on his face, the burn by his collarbone, the cut on his jaw. “Unless you have a reason to keep them?” 

“None that I can think of,” Garak says, glad that Julian has not forced him to admit that he wants them gone. The thing about being ashamed of something is that it is almost impossible to admit that shame without being ashamed of feeling it. 

Everything about his appearance was chosen long ago so he didn’t stand out. He was designed to strike up a conversation, make a passing acquaintance and then disappear into a crowd so no-one would remember him when the screaming started. He was made carefully, deliberately average. No identifying marks. Every visible scar he earned on the job was erased as soon as possible, as though he’d never been injured at all.

Anonymity went out the window when he was exiled, but still. He doesn’t like that people look at him and see torture. That’s too close to the truth. He can’t cope without a mask over the ugliness of what he’s done, and the shame of what’s been done to him. 

Julian holds his chin to keep him steady while he works, and Garak forgets how to breathe. 

He’s gentle. 

And his hand is warm. 

_ Allow yourself to heal.  _

And Garak thinks of the night where Julian, drunk but still coherent enough not to be delusional, told him without reservations  _ you’re important to me.  _ He seemed offended that Garak would even imply that he wasn’t. 

When Julian touches his hand, he lingers long past medical necessity. 

_ Every  _ touch lingers long past necessity. 

The regenerator buzzes in Julian’s hand, leaving little trails of cool numbness in its wake. 

“All done,” Julian quietly says. 

But his hand…

Lingers. 

His thumb brushes over Garak’s jaw, the place where a scar used to be. His skin feels smooth there now. 

Fear thrums in him when he looks up at Julian, and he sees exactly what he expects to see: his kind face, the dark shadows under his eyes, earned through a war he should never have seen, smiling slightly. 

Lovingly. 

He doesn’t-

People don’t look at him like that. Fear, irritation and disgust, he’s used to. But Julian keeps doing  _ this  _ and it makes him  _ feel  _ something and he wants it to stop. 

He can’t keep losing his mind every time Julian touches him. He can’t keep living in this pathetic fantasy that Julian is allowing him to have. He can’t. Everything needs to go back to normal so they can have lunch and Julian can stop being so insufferably nice. 

This has to end. 

***

Garak catches his wrist, still staring at him. All of a sudden Julian feels caught in the middle of something he didn’t mean to start but has no intention of stopping. He lets his hand move of its own accord to link with Garak’s, to brush against his cool skin. 

But Garak’s face is covered with a kind of sadness that sits in the shadows beneath his eyes like he’s long since been resigned to living with it forever. 

He lets go of Julian’s hand. 

“I think we ought to continue this examination at another time, doctor.” 

Garak stands and picks up his coat, and once again Julian has to look at his silent, rigid back as he walks away. He’s leaving. 

Again. 

“Wait.” Julian stands too, and follows him halfway across the room. “What did I do wrong?”

Garak stops in front of the door to put on his coat. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lightly says. 

“Then why are you upset?” 

“I’m not upset.” It’s such a blatant lie - and a bad one, at that - that Julian groans in frustration. 

“If that was too much, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” 

Garak laughs darkly. “Oh, believe me, I know. That just makes it unfair for me to be angry with you, so I am left with no-one to be angry with but myself.”

He turns to look at Julian, his face clean of emotion. Deliberately, painfully blank. 

“Are you familiar with many Cardassian social customs, doctor?” Garak asks. There’s ice under his casual tone. 

“Just what you’ve told me, what I’ve been able to observe, and the clues I can get from your literature.” 

“You are not aware, then, of the significant role that the touching of hands can play in interpersonal relationships.” 

Images flash through his head. 

Garak, pressing palms with Ziyal. 

A scene in a book where two lovers did the same. 

Holding Garak’s hand in the infirmary. 

Wrapping a bandage around it, feeling the bones shift beneath his cool skin. 

Playing with it in the dark. 

“Oh.” 

“Yes.” Garak’s tight smile reads of nothing but resigned exhaustion. “Perhaps in future you might avoid using such gestures in situations where you are not fully aware of their significance.” 

“Oh,” Julian says again.

It’s not like that  _ isn’t  _ what he was going for in the first place, touching Garak like that, practically stroking him like a cat. But he didn’t mean to go that far in a medical context. He shouldn’t have done this, he was supposed to give him the letter. He got impatient, and forced it, and now he might have ruined it. 

But if Garak’s discomfort is for a different reason altogether...

“You don’t want me to touch you like that again,” Julian says. 

Garak’s eyes drift shut and he lets out a tired half-hearted laugh. “As with so many things, my dear, it is not a matter of wanting,” he murmurs. 

“Would it kill you to give me a straight answer, for once in your life?” Julian asks. 

Everything he wants to say but is too afraid to put into words buzzes beneath the surface. 

“Elim.” Garak stares at him. A sharp breath straightens his spine. “Please. Just this once. I need to know.” 

Friendship isn’t his second choice. It’s the first one. Anything else goes on top of that; it’s not either / or. He just wants to know. 

“You would really be so cruel as to force a confession?” Garak says, cold, and carries on before Julian can stop him. “Very well. The problem is not that I don’t want you to touch me in that way again,” he slowly says, grinding out each of his words with an equal weight. “The problem is that I do.” 

Julian can’t quite breathe right. 

“That isn’t a problem,” he says. 

“We both know that it is,” Garak says, resigned to it like it’s an inevitable fact of life. The pain in his expression just gets worse with everything he says. He really can’t see it. He really doesn’t understand. 

Julian steps closer and takes his hand again, encloses it in both of his. The full force of that piercing gaze lands on him, confusion and fear and longing only barely hidden behind it. 

“It isn’t a problem, Garak.”

For a moment, he thinks that maybe, Garak might finally understand. The wide-eyed look of real, visceral shock hits him for only a second before he jerks out of Julian’s grip. 

“Stop it.” He suddenly snaps. 

The vulnerability turns to anger and he  _ looms; _ the quiet, twitchy Garak he’s been living with now subsumed by rage Julian has only seen a handful of times. 

“I am not this depraved creature that people would have you believe of men like me. I don’t need to be appeased with scraps of your affection every time you feel sorry for the deviant you befriended by mistake. Be my friend, or don’t. But don’t pretend you’re something you’re not. And don’t you  _ dare  _ pity me.” 

He stares, fuming, and deeply, deeply hurt. 

“I don’t pity you. Where do you get that from? I don’t think any of that. I care about you, I-” Julian gestures at the frustrating, infuriating man that has taken up so many of his thoughts. “I love you. And you just can’t see it!” 

Garak sighs. He’s trying to rein in his temper, which is more than he’s done when he gets like this in the past. 

“I see that you are a good doctor who wants to treat every deficiency he sees. You have the kindest intentions. But sometimes, while trying to be kind, you do the cruellest things.” 

“I’m not trying to be kind, you idiot! In fact, I’m trying to be extraordinarily selfish! Look, I wasn’t supposed to do it like this. I had a letter written, and everything. It was going to be nice and romantic, but apparently, the only way we ever get anything done is through a nice, proper argument.” 

He takes a deep breath. 

“This is all my fault. I should have just told you, in retrospect. Maybe you wouldn’t have believed me. I don’t know. I thought it would be better for you if I didn’t make you deal with this until you were better, so I tried to hold back, because you weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready, either. God knows if I even am now. But all I’ve done by holding back is allow you to think that the only reason I would ever kiss you is because I’m trying to be nice.” 

Garak watches him, face unreadable. Something between fury and fear. 

“I would be fascinated to hear the alternative,” he says, his voice cold and clipped. 

Julian has to laugh. One of the cleverest, quickest people he knows, and  _ this  _ is the thing he has to spell out for Garak. 

“The alternative is that I love you.” 

***

The cold is wired into his bones like electricity. Sparks of it travel through his bloodstream every time he hears the words replay in his head. 

“And not just as a friend, either. I’m  _ in love _ with you.”

Julian says it as though it makes sense. 

As though it’s possible for someone like him to love someone like Garak. 

He has used words like  _ care  _ and  _ love  _ and  _ romantic,  _ all of which would be normal and sensible, if he were saying them to anyone but Garak.

This is not normal. 

“This isn’t real,” he says. That’s the natural conclusion. Julian isn’t like him. If he was, he’d have been parading around with pretty men as well as pretty women. But he hasn’t. “And- and frankly that’s for the best. After the embarrassing mess I’ve made of myself, it’s a good thing you aren’t here to judge me.” 

“I’m here,” Julian quietly says, reaching out to touch his arm. It feels real. It feels the way Julian’s hand does. “And I’m not judging you. I’m sad that you find it so difficult to believe that I could love you, but I’m not judging you. God knows I feel the same way.” 

“Ah, that’s just what the real Julian would say.”

He can’t tell. They’re so similar. The fantasy version is always a little colder than the real one, now he thinks about it. 

“Hey, I am the real Julian.” Julian bats Garak’s arm like he’s offended. He smiles slightly, but there’s concern and nervousness under his expression.

“And that’s just what a hallucination would say.” 

“Is there any way I can convince you?” 

Garak goes silent again for a while. Sensory information pours into his head more quickly than he can sort through it. Too much. He can’t think. 

Something that would prove Julian was fake, or something that would prove Julian was real? He’ll drive himself more insane trying to think his way around that one. Something simple, then. Something he wants but can’t have.

“Kiss me.”

The real Julian would refuse this time, generously mask his discomfort with the excuse that Garak is not in his right mind, and pretend this didn’t happen over lunch.

Whichever Julian is in front of him sighs. 

“You absolute prick,” he says under his breath. Garak blinks in surprise. “You are the most  _ impossible  _ man I’ve ever met.”

The real Julian wouldn’t come close to him with that tired, yet indestructible fondness in his eyes and cup his face with warm, soft hands that brush against the smooth skin he healed. 

The real Julian wouldn’t tilt his head and slowly, gently press his lips to Garak’s. 

The real Julian wouldn’t. 

But this- this warmth that surrounds him, the shape of the doctor consuming his entire field of vision, filling the space with the clean, deep smell of him - this is unlike anything he’s hallucinated, or dreamt, or imagined. 

He hasn’t seen the fake Julian for weeks now. 

The man who stands in front of him and lowers his hands from Garak’s face is older than the one Garak always pictures in his head. He’s tired. The edges of him are full of shadows that followed him from the prison camp. The bright, shining naivety that Garak used to chide and adore in equal measure has faded now. And his virulent insistence that the world is a good place has changed too - changed into an angrier, darker kind of optimism that Garak has never seen in anyone else - the world can be better than it is, and it will be, or it will have to answer to Julian Bashir. 

“Julian.” 

It is a statement, an acknowledgement, a question. 

Julian smiles. “Hello.” 

He expects the curtain to fall at any moment. But no-one charges in to stop him when he brushes two fingers along Julian’s cheek. Julian doesn’t snap at him when he leans closer again. 

He doesn’t push Garak away when he kisses him. 

Eyelashes flick against his skin. 

Lips, warm and soft, that taste of his over-sweetened tea and push against his like he wants this. 

Julian’s hand slips against his ear as he pushes back hair from his face. 

It’s too perfect. This cannot happen. 

“You can’t,” Garak says. “This isn’t fair.” 

Panic surges. 

“It’s alright.” Julian doesn’t seem surprised, nor does he move away. He doesn’t take the warning. He merely brushes away the tears lingering under Garak’s eyes that he wasn’t aware of until now. 

He can’t have this. He cannot take this from Julian, who must be confused, blinded by his feelings of empathy towards all his patients. 

“You don’t want this, Julian. You’re confused. Even once- even just one night...You must see the risk to your career, your medical licence. I won’t let you destroy your life.” 

“Elim.” 

There it is again, the name he entrusts to so few because the effect it has on him is so great. Julian always forces his way past the barriers he has spent decades constructing between himself and the outside world, between himself and feeling something that can be used to hurt him.

“It’s alright. This isn’t Cardassia. Nothing bad is going to happen because I’m with a man.”

“What about being with a Cardassian? If your superiors find out-” 

“My superiors want both of us on their side to win this war, and if they intend to keep both of us, they’ll mind their own business,” Julian says. 

He’s thought about this. He’s planned on how to argue with Starfleet. Julian never used to be so cynical, and he’s chosen the worst moment possible to take on the lessons Garak has been trying to teach him. 

“But why take the risk? I understand that you care for me, but to-” It’s a monumental effort to say the word. “To  _ love  _ me? Like this? You know me too well for that. You know what I am. There is nothing here worth loving.”

Julian sighs. He’s still touching Garak, his hand resting against his neck.

“Do you trust me?” 

The answer comes far too easily. “You know that I do.” 

“Then trust that I know what I feel for you, whether you believe you deserve it or not.” 

Julian twines his hand with Garak’s hair, the reassuring weight of it resting on the back of his neck, and for a long, impossible moment, he rests his forehead against Garak’s, just standing there with him, against him. 

_ “Julian.” _ His eyes burn, his whole body tight with terror that fades and returns and fades with every breath that succeeds without everything falling apart. 

“Trust me. That’s all I ask. We can figure the rest out. Just please believe that I mean this.” 

“I believe you’ve lost your mind,” Garak frankly says, and Julian laughs a bit. 

“Maybe. But I know what I feel, and I know what I want. And so long as it’s the same thing you want, I think we’ll be okay.” 

An eternity passes. 

Julian pulls back, and the air around Garak cools immediately. 

“I’m already late for my shift. I wasn’t supposed to tell you like this, actually.” Julian ducks his head in embarrassment. “There’s a letter under the pot of daisies in the bedroom.”

Of course that’s where he would put something like that. Of course. 

“You know, on Cardassia, that particular breed is strongly associated with-” 

“Love. I know.”

Garak blinks at him. “You do?” 

Julian smiles the charming sort of smile that hadn’t quite worked the way he intended it when he was younger, but suits him perfectly now. 

“You’re not the only one with secrets, you know.” 

“So it would seem.” 

“I’m going to have to work through lunch today. Can we talk tonight?” 

“If we must,” Garak warily says. 

“Yes, Elim, we must. Oh, and I haven’t forgotten about the rest of your check-up.”

“Of course you haven’t.” 

Julian smiles at him. One last, lingering kiss. His soft gaze lingers even longer. 

Then he leaves. 

And Garak stands very still in their quarters, staring at the spot where Julian once was, trying to work out whether it is better or worse that what just happened was real. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it happened!!! things didn't go exactly as planned, because when do they ever?


	26. Message Received

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak finally gets the message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for referenced homophobia, negative body image, alcohol

It’s difficult for Julian to collect all his emotions into something he can identify. Adrenaline isn’t an emotion, but he’s certainly feeling it. The panic of hurting Garak by mistake, the steep cliff face of fear he jumped over when he told him the truth, the rush of dopamine when he kissed him - and when Garak kissed him back. 

He didn’t realise he’d have to work so hard to convince Garak that his feelings were genuine, that he’s truly so entrenched in self-hatred that he’d sooner believe Julian was a hallucination than that he’s actually in love with him. 

Which he is. Sometimes he gets so caught up in chasing after someone that when he catches up to them, he realises that the chase was all he was interested in. Not this time. He still loves Garak in that giddy excited way where he wants to flirt with him and chase after him and all that, but also in an old familiar way where being with him is just comfortable. 

Which is why he spends most of the day vibrating all over in anticipation, wondering whether Garak has read the letter, and if he has, whether it was good enough. The curse of having a perfect memory - and a need for everything else to be perfect too - is that he can remember exactly what he wrote and he can already think of a dozen ways he could have written it better. 

“Everything alright, Julian?” 

He jumps. 

Dax stands in the entrance to the infirmary, brow raised, hands behind her back, smiling slightly. 

“Jadzia.”

“Did you have a good time last night?” She asks. 

“Yes, I did, actually.” 

“Good. So. How long is Garak going to stay with you?” 

He sighs. It’s going to be like that, then. 

“I’m not sure.” A long time, he hopes, but that depends so heavily on the letter and the conversation they need to have this evening that he’s not sure. “Why?”

“Oh, just wondering. Things can get very heated when you live with someone in close quarters, especially someone you’re close to.” 

He purses his lips at her emphasis on  _ heated.  _

“We get on very well, actually.” 

“Really?” Her arched brow bends higher. “You two don’t argue about  _ anything?”  _

As they established last night, she knows that arguing with a Cardassian is the same thing as flirting with him. And he suspects the four Bajoran nurses on rotation today also know that. 

Unfortunately, he also suspects Dax isn’t going to let this go. 

“Not really,” he says. “Oh, I’ve just remembered. I’ve got something for you in my office.” 

She tilts her head. 

“Really? I can’t think what that would be.” 

“Perhaps you could come with me and I’ll jog your memory,” he says, and more or less pulls her in. He isn’t really ready to talk to her about this yet, not knowing what’s going to happen himself, but it’s better to stop the spread of infection as quickly as possible, the infection in this case being gossip.

He closes the door firmly, and she stands with her hands behind her back, expectant. 

“Out with it,” he says, slumping into his chair. 

“Out with what?” 

“Me and Garak. You’re clearly dying to ask.” 

“Ah, so there is a ‘you and Garak’,” she smiles. “I knew it.” 

“Maybe,” he cautions her. “And it’s a very firm ‘maybe’. So don’t go spreading it around.” 

“My lips are sealed.” 

“I mean it. He’s very…” 

He doesn’t know how to describe any of the problems that currently impede him from having a regular relationship with Garak without also telling Dax anything Garak wouldn’t want shared. 

“I think if something does happen, it’s might be difficult for a while,” he carefully says. “And I don’t want it to be made any more difficult by rumours and gossip.”

They both have to deal with enough of that as it is.

“You’re both pretty prominent faces on a small station. How long do you reasonably expect to be able to keep something like that quiet?” 

“Between one former spy and one illegal augment, I think we can figure something out,” Julian says. He didn’t mean to get that bitter. The excitement on Jadzia’s face falters a little. “Sorry. I just meant- we’re quite good with secrets, he and I.” 

“It’s one thing to keep it quiet. It’s another thing for it to be a secret.” 

“I know. If something happens-  _ if,” _ he repeats, and points at her to emphasise it. “Then that’s something we’ll have to talk about.”

“Does anyone else know?” 

“I asked Keiko for advice. And Odo.” 

_ “Odo?”  _ Jadzia looks delighted that that conversation has taken place, and immediately leans in for details. 

“Don’t ask. But no-one else knows, and it’s better that it stays that way for now. You probably know what Cardassians are like about anyone that isn’t strictly heterosexual. I don't want him to feel like everybody knows.” 

She nods. “Iloja gave Tobin an idea. Nobody will hear anything from me. I promise.”

Julian sighs in relief and slumps back into his chair. 

“Thank you.” 

She bows her head and turns to go. 

“Oh, and Julian?” He looks up, and she offers a winning smile. “Congratulations.” 

***

Garak spends quite a long time staring at the doorway before he remembers that he has tasks to perform that morning that consist of more than just thinking about how it felt to kiss Julian and the fact that he said he loves him.

Julian thinks he  _ loves  _ him. 

He still feels cold and exposed from undressing and his hand and shoulder are numb, and all of that is overrun by the pounding of his heart as he finally forces himself to move. He hopes it’s true. Of course he does. But he expects it isn’t. He has to shield himself from the horrible inevitability of lies and hallucinations. Even though he felt Julian there, felt the honesty of his words, he can’t simply believe it. 

But as promised, there is a folded piece of paper beneath the pot of daisies in the bedroom. 

The Standard letters are careful, each delineated precisely. Handwriting in a second language tends to be far more difficult to decipher than digital text, and Julian has clearly taken this into consideration. 

_ My dear Elim,  _

_ I understand what you meant about the truth now. I must have written a hundred different versions of this letter before settling on this one. Everything I said in all of them was true, but none of them were quite the same.  _

_ What I need to do, before I say any of the rest of this, is apologise. I was a terrible friend to you. I left you alone and took it for granted that you’d be there if I needed you and when you weren’t anymore, it was like the rug had been pulled out from under me. I suppose what I’m asking, in an inelegant and long-winded manner, is whether you’ll forgive me for that, or at least let me make it up to you.  _

_ There’s something else. Do you remember when you said Caesar should have been able to see what was going on right under his nose? _

_ I was certain that you would figure it out on your own when you saw that I’d kept every one of your plants. Maybe even when I asked you to live with me. I don’t think it was optimistic of me to hope you’d realise after I kissed you, but I seem to have made a bit of a mess of that, too. These last few days, I pictured you cornering me in some dark part of the station and making me confess. It’s just my luck that this is the one occasion where you didn’t see through me, because now I have to do the hard part. I have to actually confess, without being prompted to do so.  _

_ So, yes. I love you.  _

He has to sit down on the bed at that point. 

_ I probably have for years, but it took me a ridiculously long time to realise. Almost too long, in fact. And I’m not prepared to lose you again without getting this right. _

_ Anything I say to explain myself is going to be insufficient, but it’s worth a try. You are by far my favourite person to talk to, partly because you’re so good at it. You could make an argument about toilet paper interesting if you wanted to. I’ve always admired that about you. I find myself wanting to tell you things I’ve never told anyone else. I didn’t even tell Telnorri about the dreams. Y _ _ ou're also brilliant, and brave, though you’d rather no-one knew those things. I expect you’d also prefer no-one knew how caring you can be, too, despite all your warnings about sentiment. The best part of my day is watching you tend to your plants every morning. I can’t imagine going back to living alone again now that I know how much better it is to have you there with me. These are selfish things, I know, and if you don’t feel for me what I do for you, I hope you can forgive me for this, as well.  _

_ I don’t expect anything from you except an answer, and I certainly don’t expect that right away. Given how you seem to have misinterpreted every single one of the other signals I’ve given off, this might be something of a surprise. Or, you might have known exactly what I was doing, and pretended not to because it would have been horribly awkward otherwise.  _

_ I shan’t go on any longer; I know I tend to ramble. I suppose what I’m saying is that I want to be with you, whether that’s as a friend or something more than that. Regardless, I don’t want to ruin our friendship for anything. That is the most important thing to me out of all of this. _

_ Patiently yours, _

_ Julian  _

Garak reads it a second time. He stares at the wall. He reads it again. 

He lowers his head into his hands. 

_ “It’s a lie. He’s trying to manipulate you.”  _

“Be quiet.” 

_ “And if it isn’t, you’ve done it again. Deceived another young, naive friend into thinking you’re not a monster.”  _

Ziyal.

She was a child. He didn’t love her, not like this. He cared about her, but he wasn’t attracted to her, he didn’t feel that nervous excitement when he looked at her the way he does with men. 

With Julian. 

It all seems so ridiculous. Julian is this young, beautiful doctor, a genius by every measure, his entire life taken up by medicine and his duty in this war. How could he possibly feel this way? 

But he doesn't lie, not like this. So it must be true. 

_ “And how long do you expect that to last, Elim? He’ll burn out this adolescent fascination in a month and move on to someone else.” _

“Be quiet.” 

He has to go and do something. Anything except sitting here panicking. Tain gets louder the more he focuses on him. These days he only crops up to give unhelpful commentary if Garak gets overly anxious about something; for example, his closest friend suddenly confessing he’s in love with him. 

Julian, if he is to be believed, and if Garak isn’t having the best and worst delusional episode of his life, would like to continue living with him indefinitely. He seemed very pleased about kissing him. And following on from that, would ostensibly like to share a bed with him. 

Garak makes sure he looks passable in the mirror, tugs up his collar and realises the scar he’s trying to cover is no longer there. Julian fixed it. The skin feels warm to the touch. 

Julian has seen him. All of him. The ugly scars and imperfections Garak hasn’t bothered to fix. Julian has seen all that, and he still wants him? That seems impossible enough that Garak briefly entertains the idea that Julian has lost interest in sex entirely, or is content to have a relationship without it, and therefore doesn’t care what Garak looks like undressed, because he has no intention of undressing him. 

Knowing Julian, though, that seems truly unbelievable. No easy answer there. 

Julian knows his mind is broken, and probably has been for a long, long time. Cracked, and now shattered. Does he not care about that, either? 

Even if Julian is serious, even if it lasts longer than the rest of his relationships, even if he really, truly wants to be with Garak - is it fair to let him make that mistake? Surely not. Surely he’s been blinded somehow by his professional empathy while Garak’s been ill and forgotten what kind of person he really is. Surely he’s delusional. 

But he’s been saying it for the past month, over and over. 

_ I missed you.  _

_ You’re my friend. I care about you. I like having you around.  _

_ You matter to me.  _

_ You’re important to me.  _

If Garak had overheard those being said to anyone else in the voice Julian used, he’d have thought it all added up to a very thinly veiled confession. But because it was him, and no-one has said things like that to him in so long, he didn’t put it together. 

And now...what? He’s spent so long feeling for Julian that he has no idea what to do when faced with the possibility that he can do something about it. 

He relocates to his shop in a cloud of doubt and self-loathing and jittery anxiety, and ruminates. 

***

They sit. They drink. They glance at each other. 

Garak takes a breath. He tips his glass back and forth, watching the liquid move, and Julian watches him. The ridge that runs down his nose, extending his profile. The way the light glints from the glass and reflects in his eyes. 

“You know the things I’ve done, the kind of man I used to be. You, more than anyone, have seen exactly how monstrous I can be when I allow myself to lose control,” Garak eventually says. “And yet here you sit, asking  _ my  _ forgiveness. Well, you have forgiven me things a thousand times worse than a few missed lunches, doctor. Not to mention that you’ve saved my life several times in the past month alone. If there was anything to forgive, it has long since been forgiven.”

“Thank you.” 

Garak smiles slightly, nervously, anxiously. “And as for the other matter…” 

He trails off and drinks. Julian lets the silence sit. As eager as he is to fill it, he’s learnt better by now. 

“I was sure you knew what my- ah-  _ feelings _ ...are. Certainly when you kissed me that night.”

“I hoped. But I didn’t know for sure until this morning,” Julian says. Garak looks at him, interested, frowning slightly. His glass hangs casually from his fingers like it belongs there.

“Yet you had already written that letter, not knowing.” 

“I took a risk. There’s a war on. I decided that I didn’t have any more time to waste worrying about whether or not you felt anything for me when I could just ask, and we could do something about it like reasonable people.” 

“So you think this is a reasonable course of action?” 

His heart stops for a second. “You don’t?”

Garak shrugs. It isn’t as casual as he likely meant it to be. 

“Even putting aside the consequences if your superiors find out, if you find that your feelings for me are not as stable as you believe them to be, and someone finds out that we were... intimate, for however short a time, your reputation will still be tarnished.” 

“My _reputation-_ Garak, were you not listening? There’s a bloody war on!” Julian exclaims, gesturing widely with his glass. “Some people don’t like you, and some people would disapprove of us being together. But they are not people I care enough about pleasing to hold myself back from something I want.” 

Garak scoffs. “What about your friends?” 

“If any of my friends have a problem with it, then they aren’t as good friends as I thought they were. Look, if that’s what’s stopping you, don’t worry. Nothing bad is going to happen because we go from roommates to something else.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

Julian sighs. “Alright, I can’t. But I think it’s worth the very minimal risk.” 

He watches Garak look back at his glass and swirl the kanar around.

“On Cardassia, men sometimes kill their lovers to prevent their affairs becoming public, the same way they kill their bastard children,” he lightly says. "There are those who would say that indiscretion isn't worth the risk." Immediately, Julian thinks of Ziyal and how Dukat nearly killed her to protect his reputation. Then his mind returns to Garak, and Tain, and that awful bunker in the internment camp. 

_ “I should have killed your mother before you were born.”  _

It was a vile enough statement, even from Tain, that it stuck in Julian’s head long after they made it home, as did Garak’s response. 

_ “So you’ve said. Many times.”  _

Bitter, but too resigned to his bitterness for it to sting. He’s used to being treated as a dirty secret to be hidden away or destroyed. Knowing him, he probably feels like he deserves to be treated that way. 

Not this time.

He shifts closer, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. 

“We’re not on Cardassia. There’s no shame attached to us being together here. It’s not indiscretion, it's just a normal relationship, like everyone else’s. I spoke to Odo and Keiko for advice, because I know that I’m socially inept at times and I didn’t want to screw up. And Jadzia confronted me this morning. And none of them were against it.”

“You spoke to them about me?” Garak incredulously says. “You explicitly stated your intention to court me and not one of them attempted to dissuade you?”

“Well, Odo seemed to think I was just trying to get my leg over, but that was the extent of his objection.” 

“But you didn’t know that would be the case beforehand. What if they had turned on you because of me?” 

“Then they wouldn’t be my friends,” Julian says. 

Garak stares, shocked. “You’re truly serious about this.” 

“Of course I am,” Julian says, a little offended at this point. How many times does he have to say it before Garak will believe him?

Garak disappears behind his cool mask for a second, staring, searching, then seems to shatter. “You could have anyone,” he bursts out, desperate. "Anyone less old and complicated and damaged. You wrote such kind things about me, but I don’t understand-” He stops. Shame bows his usually proud head. 

“That’s the problem?” Julian softly says. “You don’t think you’re good enough for me?” 

He shrugs again. “The truth of the matter is that in my eyes, there is no-one in the universe who would be good enough for you. There are many people who would be better, though. I wouldn’t want you to make a decision you’ll regret.” 

“The only thing I’ll regret is holding back because I’m afraid that something might go wrong. And I’m certainly not going to hold back because maybe, somewhere out there, there’s someone else that I might end up loving one day.” Julian reaches for Garak’s face and tips his chin up again so he’ll meet his eyes. “I want you, not some hypothetical. I love  _ you.  _ And that’s not going to change. I’ll say it as many times as you need me to.”

“No, that’s…that’s quite enough.” 

Julian smiles and lets his hand fall from his face, but Garak catches it, just like he did this morning. But this time, when his eyes meet Julian’s, he doesn’t let it go or turn away. He brings Julian’s hand to his lips and places a barely-there kiss to the thin skin of his inner wrist. 

He lets go a bit awkwardly afterwards and stares into his lap, then finishes his half-empty glass and stares at that, too. 

“May I kiss you now?” he suddenly asks. It’s such an innocent, blunt question that Julian has to stare at him for a second before answering. 

“Of course you can.” 

He sets the glass on the table, and his attention, the bright, cold burn of his eyes focuses completely on Julian, darting across his face, his eyes, his lips. He freezes, and Julian waits. 

Breathes. 

Watches tiny flickers of emotion dance across that carefully-trained face before he leans in, and it’s hesitant, soft. A taste of hot, bitter kanar. His hands find their way to Garak’s face again, and a cool, scaled palm gently cups his jaw in response. 

They find their footing. 

Deeper. 

He can feel the emotion behind it now, rolling from Garak’s entire being. He touches Julian with such gentleness that he feels like he might shatter. His hand rests on Julian’s chest when he leans back, only an inch away.

“You don’t mind your friends knowing,” Garak says. 

“Not at all. I always tell Miles who I’m seeing. But if you’d rather keep this private, then that’s what we’ll do. It’s your decision. I don’t want to rush into anything you’re not comfortable with.” 

Garak tilts his head. “It seems silly to maintain secrecy when three of your friends already know,” he says, though he doesn’t sound certain at all.

“They’re your friends, too,” Julian says. 

“Ah. Yes.” Garak doesn’t look like he believes him. He sits back. “Still. I think I would prefer discretion with the others, for now, if that’s alright?”

The others being the ones that don't have as much time for Garak as Keiko, Odo or Dax. Kira's name springs to mind. As does Sisko's.  On second thoughts, discretion sounds very good to him on that front, too, though he's more than willing to stand his ground against his captain if the situation arises. 

“Of course.”

He needs to lighten the mood, because as much as he likes having Garak stare at him like he’s the centre of the universe, he’s not a fan of the expression that lingers behind it, that says he’s terrified that Julian is going to change his mind at any moment. 

“It’s probably for the best. There’s a lot to get used to without having to deal with Quark trying to sell us romantic holosuite programs,” Julian says. 

And Garak laughs. Sort of. It’s that amused little hum that comes from the back of his throat. 

“I’d prefer to avoid that, if at all possible.” 

_ There it is, _ Julian thinks to himself, upon seeing him smile. He's glad he doesn’t have to worry about seeming overbearing or invasive now when he rubs wide patterns over Garak’s back. It soothes him as much as Garak, being able to touch him, to help him in a tangible way rather than panicking from across the room over whether this or that touch is going to be read the wrong way. He can just do it, now. 

“We’ll figure the rest out,” he says, to himself as much as Garak. 

“That sounds dangerously like optimism, doctor.”

“Guilty as charged.” 

“Hm. I’ll forgive it, just this once,” Garak says. His eyes drift closed, his voice low. The ever-present rigidity in his spine slowly relaxes under Julian’s touch. Strange, how the most talkative person on the station has taught him to be comfortable in silence. 

He lets his hand settle at the small of his back and Garak opens his eyes, smiling slightly at him. 

He’s aware of the scar tissue that sits below Garak’s thick layers, and the heavy discomfort in his face when he had to undress for the examination that morning. If Garak says something doesn’t bother him, it probably does. 

There are a lot of things they need to work on. But the fact that he’s sitting here with Julian, allowing an intimate relationship between them, even admitting that he wants such a thing - that is so much better than anything Julian could have hoped for even a few weeks ago. He can’t help but feel optimistic. In the midst of a war that feels like it will never end, he has something good to hold onto for himself. 

It feels like the worst is behind them at last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew!! this one took me a while because I wasn't quite sure what I wanted everyone to be saying and doing, but it's out now! finally, they talk!


	27. Sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They share a bed. That's it. That's the chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw internalised homophobia
> 
> this is more like an interlude than an actual chapter with actual plot, but i wanted cuddling so here we are.

It’s late. It must be. Dinner feels like hours ago, this morning feels like last week. 

Julian sits beside him, smiling every time he makes eye contact. His face feels strangely warm and smooth where Julian’s hands have been, his lips hypersensitive. Nothing matters except the look on Julian’s face. His eyes. 

_ Am I imagining this? _

But this warmth, this beautiful face looking directly at him and only him…

He touches Julian’s cheek. Inching a little closer. Tipping up his head, caressing his narrow jaw with his thumb. 

Everything in his mind tells him that when he does this, the illusion will be shattered and Julian will strike at him and throw him out. Every second that passes without a sudden burst of pain is less believable than the last. 

But every time, Julian smiles, and kisses him back. Nothing more than that, so far. Kissing him is frightening enough without worrying about the rest of it, which he isn’t even sure if Julian wants from him. 

“It’s late,” Julian says. 

“So it is.” 

“Would you like to, um- I can turn the temperature up in the bedroom. If you wanted to share,” Julian offers. Garak swallows. Perhaps he does want more. “Just to sleep!” Julian quickly adds.

“Ah.” 

“Not that I don’t want to sleep with you. Obviously I do.”

“Obviously,” Garak faintly says, trying not to imagine it. 

“I meant I want to  _ sleep  _ with you.” 

“I see.” It’s been a long time since he’s shared a bed with anyone. 

“Unless you don’t want to,” Julian says.

“No, no. I’d like to,” Garak forces himself to say, before he can stop himself with anxious thoughts. 

Julian beams at him. 

They do his medication; Julian’s warm hand rests on his neck while the hypo pricks his skin. 

Garak has a few minutes to himself when Julian uses the bathroom, and a few minutes after that when it’s his turn, most of which he uses to stare at himself in the mirror and panic. 

Julian wants him. And though he does have appalling taste in clothes, he’s not completely blind. There must be something about him that appeals aesthetically. Garak has no idea what that might be. His face is average, unremarkable; that’s what made him a good spy. He undresses and for a second, allows himself to imagine Julian’s hands instead of his. Julian’s hands brushing against his skin as he lifts the hem of his shirt. 

_ That  _ is a line of thought he can’t continue. It’s not fair to Julian, it’s disrespectful to imagine him in that context-

_ “Disgusting.”  _

Wait. 

Julian wants him. It’s not bad. He’s allowed to think things like that without a crashing wave of shame swallowing every desire. He might be allowed to  _ have  _ those things.

“It’s fine,” he firmly tells the scared-looking reflection as he pulls his sleepwear on. 

Surely he wasn’t always this disgusted with himself. He used to sleep with men he didn’t know before he was exiled. He even had that in mind when he first met Julian, and didn’t hate himself for it. Well, maybe he did, a little bit. But he couldn’t feel much of anything back then, except anger and dull, cold, loneliness, and the rush he got when he drank or used the implant or nearly got himself killed. 

Julian is sitting up in bed when he finally dredges up the courage to leave the bathroom, and there’s a pile of blankets beside him. He must have moved them when Garak was in the bathroom. 

“Hey.” His face lights up and it gives Garak a strange, twisting feeling that makes him feel warm. 

Julian shuffles over a bit to make room. Garak is hyper-aware of his movements as he climbs onto the bed beside him and sits with his legs crossed. His knee bumps Julian’s; a shot of warmth through the fabric. 

His face is soft in the shadows. 

“Are you going to sit there staring, or are you going to kiss me goodnight?” Julian asks. 

“Which would you prefer?” 

Julian sighs, gently takes hold of his face and kisses him.

“For future reference, I would prefer that,” he says. 

Garak hums. “Noted.” 

His lips are going numb from kissing now.

Julian kisses his cheek and shuffles down onto his side. Garak realises he’s supposed to do the same. He pulls up a couple of the blankets to shut out the cold and bone-deep self-consciousness, and lies down beside Julian. There isn’t much space on the bed, which means he has to be closer to Julian. He’s not complaining. 

“Are you warm enough?” Julian asks. 

Garak nods. 

Julian frowns at him and reaches to touch his face. 

“Your skin is cold.”

“It’s quite alright,” Garak dismisses his concern. He’s always cold. 

“Don’t be silly. Let me help.” Julian tugs at the corner of his blankets and Garak lets him under in surprise. “Put your arm around me.”

He pulls Garak’s arm around himself, shuffles down and presses right up against his chest. And he’s  _ hot  _ beneath his pyjamas, radiating warmth that seeps into Garak. 

“Better?” 

“Hmm. That’s...very helpful. Thank you.” 

He has to force himself to relax. It’s alright to relax. 

It’s alright.

It’s alright to kiss the top of Julian’s head and rest his chin there, breathing the scent of his hair. 

He’s allowed. 

Julian’s body is relaxed. The quiet makes him nervous, though. He can’t tell what Julian is feeling when his face is hidden.

“Aren’t you going to overheat?” he asks, as an excuse to hear Julian’s voice and gauge his emotional state. 

“No, you’re nice and cold. It balances out.” He sounds content. And then he cuddles more firmly against him. 

His warm hand runs along a strip of Garak’s skin, left exposed by his shirt riding up, and slips underneath to stroke the scaled plates on his back. It’s like this morning, the examination, a gentle touch that sends strange tingles across his skin. His thumb brushes over smooth scar tissue and Garak flinches instinctively. 

The whip, the Vorta’s sickening touch.

“Is this okay?” Julian asks, pausing his movements. “I can stop.”

He takes a moment to steady himself. 

It’s alright. There’s no need to panic.

“No, please. Continue.” 

Garak closes his eyes as Julian massages his cold skin warm. Heat seeps into muscles that have ached for years and don’t quite know what to do with themselves now that they don’t have to be tense at the slightest touch anymore. Not every touch is loaded with pain or shame. 

He remembers it’s acceptable to touch Julian in the same way. He can stroke his hair. Shorter and more wiry than a Cardassian’s. The smell of it is familiar, comforting. He runs his hand through it, combing it with his fingers so they come away slightly greased with the product Julian uses to keep it in shape.

He has Julian in his arms. He has him. 

Just the two of them, in the dark. In a small dark room.

Firm pressure against his chest. 

He just…

Breathes. 

Time stretches. 

Julian’s hand slows and eventually stops. His breathing evens out. He actually trusts Garak enough to fall asleep in his arms. Sharing quarters with him is one thing, but this? 

Garak doesn’t expect to sleep nearly as easily. Part of him doesn’t want to, in case he wakes up on the bunk in the living room and everything has gone back to normal. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do about any of this, apart from the obvious plan of holding onto Julian as tightly as he can, for as long as he can, without destroying their friendship by clinging  _ too  _ tightly or for  _ too  _ long. 

He has Julian. He hasn’t had anything of his own in so long, nothing irreplaceable the way the feeling of Julian breathing against his chest is irreplaceable. 

_ “He’s going to die in this war, you know. Some stupid heroic act, and that will be it for Dr Julian Subatoi Bashir.”  _

Garak breathes the scent of Julian’s hair again and tightens his grip. A universe without Julian is no longer one he cares to consider. 

***

Julian drifts comfortably awake and finds a heavy arm around his waist, a solid weight behind him, pressed against his back. Slow, regular breathing. 

Garak. 

He’s still there. 

Julian must have turned over in his sleep and ended up with his back against Garak’s chest. 

His internal body clock is near-perfect, and he can tell it must be five or six in the morning. Not early enough to justify going back to sleep, but not late enough to justify waking Garak just yet. He always looks tired. 

Julian stays very still and lets his senses spread out across the room. The sound of Garak’s breathing, the feeling of it against his neck, his chest gradually shifting with each breath. The station buzzing, whirring. Errant sparks beneath the bulkheads. Sounds no-one else can hear.

Garak stayed. 

Julian didn’t expect him to sneak off, exactly, but it’s still surreal to wake up and feel him there. He’s never pined after someone for so long and then actually ended up in bed with them. 

It feels good. Comforting. 

It’s also dangerous, because he can feel the telltale signs of arousal starting up, and it’s far too early for that. He tries to will it away, but there’s only so much he can do when there’s a body pressed against his back. And then his nose starts itching and there’s nothing his enhancements can do about that. He gives in and scratches it, and his elbow bumps Garak’s hand. 

Garak draws in a sharp breath. His muscles twitch, then tighten, and his slow breathing becomes deliberately measured rather than natural. 

“You awake?” Julian murmurs, just in case he’d rather pretend not to be. 

Garak hums. 

Julian takes that as permission to turn to face him again. Garak blinks sleep out of his eyes and squints at him. 

“You’re still here,” he mumbles. 

“Of course I am. I’m right here.” He touches Garak’s shoulder to reassure him. 

“So you are.” 

“I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s still early. You can go back to sleep if you like.” 

Garak just frowns. He touches Julian’s cheek very cautiously, like he’s afraid he’ll be smacked away. Julian takes the hint and kisses him briefly on the lips. He suspects Garak is going to need a lot of reassurance, whether he’s willing to ask for it or not. 

“I’m still here,” Julian says again. “I’m not going anywhere. Well, except the bathroom.” 

He has to get up before his problem becomes more pressing and deal with it before Garak notices. Julian secretes himself in the bathroom and takes care of his arousal as quickly and quietly as he can.

He picks up a voice from the bedroom before he opens the bathroom door. 

_ “That may be so, but you could at least let me enjoy it,” _ Garak mutters, so quiet that an ordinary human wouldn’t have been able to hear it. 

Julian lingers by the door, listening. 

_ “Leave me alone.” _

His heart sinks. 

He has to take on a different tone when he returns to the bedroom. Garak is sitting up now, and smiles nervously at him. Julian settles on the bed beside him and thinks carefully through his words. 

“There were some questions I didn’t manage to ask you yesterday morning. About your hallucinations.” 

Garak sets his jaw. “Is that completely necessary?” 

“I can’t keep giving you medicine indefinitely without knowing if it’s helping or not,” Julian says. Getting information out of Garak is like pulling teeth. In fact, he’s fairly certain he could convince Garak to have a tooth pulled far more easily than he could convince him to divulge useful information pertaining to his health. 

“It is. Does that satisfy your curiosity?” 

“But you’re still experiencing some hallucinations.” 

“Not at all,” Garak says. “Why would you think that?” 

“Because I just heard you talking to yourself.” Garak sighs and looks away. “Can you describe them to me?”

“I don’t see why it matters.”

Julian sits closer. “Elim. I’m only trying to help.” 

Garak’s hair hangs messy and loose from sleep, and he combs through it to avoid looking at him. Julian reaches out to smooth back the sleek, fine strands. Garak starts in surprise, but lets him. His skin is cool where Julian’s hand brushes against it; that kept surprising him last night when he kissed him. 

“It’s liveable,” Garak eventually says. “They’re much less distracting than they were.”

He takes that to mean that it’s still unpleasant, but Garak being Garak, he won’t admit to it. 

“How would you feel about increasing the dose of ilochlorodin?”

“A higher dose means a higher chance of negative side-effects, does it not?” 

“It’s possible. A lot of the side-effects can be controlled with additional medication, or will clear up if we reduce the dose again.” 

“And if it doesn’t help, and I’m haunted by the spirits of the dead for all eternity?” Garak says, in an over-dramatic voice. 

Julian sighs. “If it doesn’t help, we’ll try something else.” 

He looks at Garak and tries to imagine what it must be like to see things that aren’t there, hear voices in his head that aren’t real. How hard must it be for Garak, who barely trusts anyone or anything as it is, to be unable to trust his own senses to tell him the truth? 

“What do you see, when...you see things?”

“Oh, nothing of importance,” Garak says. “Just...the past.” 

Julian wants to ask. He wants to know what it is Garak sees when his face goes blank. He wants to know what he hears when he has to ask Julian to repeat himself in conversation. But it’s not his business, not really. If Garak wants to share, he will. In his own way. 

Garak shakes himself off and looks around for the blankets that have bunched up around his waist. 

“Cold?” Julian asks. 

Garak glances at him and licks his lips slightly. 

“Perhaps a little.” 

“Well, then. I don’t have to be up for another hour and a half, at least.”

He encourages Garak to lie down with him again, and sprawls half over his chest like a human blanket. 

“Tell me if I’m too heavy.” The last thing he wants is to trigger Garak’s claustrophobia. 

“No, that’s very helpful.” 

That’s the adjective he used last night, too. Julian takes that to mean it’s nice, but to admit that would mean admitting he likes being held. 

“Glad to be of service,” Julian yawns, and settles in comfortably for a long, quiet doze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think!!


	28. An Invitation Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning routines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw in this bit for the usual internalised homophobia, self-hatred stuff

Garak thought he hated being touched. It turns out he doesn’t. He hates being grabbed and pushed and hit and shoved past in the corridor.

But last night was the warmest, most comfortable sleep he’s had in years. The itching, crawling neediness under his skin has suddenly dissipated. Julian has satisfied a craving Garak couldn’t admit to having in the first place. The warm weight of him draped over his chest is so calming that he might be able to go back to sleep. 

He doesn’t want to, though. He wants to luxuriate in the moment. 

Julian eventually shifts off his chest and upwards to lie face to face with him on the pillow. His hand lies temptingly close on the bed between them. 

Garak hesitates for far too long over what to do about this. 

_ Take it.  _

_ Don’t, that’s too forward.  _

_ He slept with his rear pressed into your lap, it must be fine.  _

_ You’ll look needy.  _

_ Shut up.  _

He does it. He slides his fingers between Julian’s and squeezes. Julian squeezes back. 

“Will you teach me about those Cardassian customs you mentioned?” Julian asks. His voice is lower and scratchier than usual, muffled by sleep. 

“We press palms.” Garak turns his hand over and Julian settles his flat against it. “It’s ambiguous, but tends towards familiarity. Close friends, or…” 

“Partners?” Julian finishes for him. 

Is that what they are? 

No, from the look on Julian’s face, the question in his voice- it’s a request for confirmation. 

“Yes,” Garak says, in a ghost of a whisper. “If you like.” 

He slips his fingers between Julian’s again, palm to palm. 

“This is less ambiguous.” 

“It feels different to you, doesn’t it? Your hand is more sensitive?” 

Garak hums. “More sensitive to skin, specifically.”

“So it’s not just a social custom? When I touch you like this…” Julian trails a gentle touch from the tip of his middle finger, down his palm and all the way down to his wrist with his customary tenderness. “It feels good?”

“Mmm. It has a pleasant, calming effect.”

Julian massages his hand the way he has before when it’s been giving him trouble, but lets it linger. He makes it obvious. And he finishes with a kiss in the palm of his hand. 

“Ah- that particular action is-” 

“What?”

“I could only describe it as an invitation. Or a request.” 

Julian raises his brows, mouth forming an ‘o’ of surprise. He glances at the ceiling, reevaluating, then back at Garak. 

“And how would you- how would  _ one  _ respond to that kind of invitation?” 

He’s not being very subtle about it. His desire. If Garak had been paying attention before, he would have seen it as plainly as he sees it now. And Julian knows the answer, of course. He’s just being polite. Courteous. 

“One would respond in kind, of course.” 

Garak lifts Julian’s hand, plays with it a little. He’s always liked to draw things out. 

Patience. 

Patience is the excuse he uses for why he hasn’t made a move. 

_ “Patience is another word for cowardice.” _

He raises the warm, elegant hand to his lips, but just before he makes contact, Julian sighs. 

“Alarm will go off in a second.” 

_ “The time is 0730.” _ The computer blankly announces only seconds later, and the lights come up. 

“Good to know you’re putting your enhancements to good use.” 

Julian sits up and gives him a fond, disapproving look. 

“Can that response be postponed?” he asks. 

Garak sits up so he can be eye-to-eye with him. He doesn’t like people looming over him. 

“Of course, if the one making the invitation is willing to be patient.”

“He is,” Julian assures him. He has the patience of a saint; he must, to put up with Garak. The ceiling lights create a bright halo around Julian’s face, streaming through his hair.

“You’re so beautiful,” Garak murmurs. 

The slightly smug smile that lights up Julian’s face is stunning. 

“Go back to being rude, or I won’t get out of bed.” 

“Now that isn’t much motivation, is it?” 

“Shh.” 

Julian kisses his cheek and slides out of bed to use the bathroom. 

The blankets around him smell of Julian. He pulls one around his shoulders when he gets up to keep in the warmth and the comforting smell as he gets up to check on his plants. The muscles in his back pull and strain where they were injured before. It’s only dull pain now, a twinge when he moves the wrong way or sits in the same position for too long. He can ignore it. 

This plant needs watering. That one needs to be moved to a warmer part of the room. He inspects large, vibrant green leaves for spots and holes. One advantage of keeping plants indoors is that it’s much easier to control their environment and remove pests. 

He becomes aware of Julian watching him, leaning against the bathroom door. There’s a soft look on his face that Garak has noticed more and more recently. Sort of content. Adoring. 

Adoring  _ him.  _

_ The best part of my day is watching you take care of your plants every morning,  _ he said. 

Julian crosses the room to him with that same captivating look. 

He’s an attractive man. Pretty. He has a beautiful structure to his face. His hands are thin and elegant and his neck…

_ “Disgusting.”  _

Garak has to remind himself to take a deep breath. 

It’s one thing to admire an attractive stranger and contemplate having sex with him. Garak was relatively unashamed about that when they first met. But when they became friends, when Julian saved his life, those thoughts became unacceptable. 

Or so he thought. 

But Julian wants him. It’s alright to think of him the same way.

The feeling of his skin. 

Kissing him. 

His hands.

_ “Your duty comes before everything, Elim. Don’t be selfish.”  _

Why shouldn’t he be selfish? Julian wants him, so why shouldn’t he take what’s being offered, while it’s being offered? 

He can do his duty  _ and  _ have Julian. It’s not like Cardassia is losing anything by Garak’s failure to reproduce. In fact, he considers it an act of service not to continue his genetic line. His blood is tainted with cruelty he can’t pass on. 

But the voice isn’t talking about that, though. Not really. 

His duty is to be soulless. Empty. A vessel for the will of his people. His duty is to be alone, uninterrupted, undistracted. He is nothing. He is no-one. His duty is to be the tip of a blade. 

“Hey.” 

A hand in his hair, pushing it back where it curls slightly around his ear. Julian’s touch wakes Garak and reminds him that he is more than a body with a list of directions to follow. His soft eyes have flecks of brown and green that seem to move in the light. 

Julian strokes his back gently. His hand brushes over scar tissue. 

“We’ll be late if you don’t hurry up and get dressed,” Julian says. 

Garak has never cared less about being late, not when he could be here, doing this. 

_ “You’ll _ be late. One of the few benefits of being self-employed is that there’s no-one to chastise me for missing opening time.” 

Julian raises a brow. “I’ll put breakfast out.”

Patience. 

He should have let Julian remove at least some of the scarring on his back, or the electrical burns on his torso from the Jem’Hadar’s batons. Julian shouldn’t have to see this. He shouldn’t have to think of torture when he touches him. 

_ “Shouldn’t he?” _

No, Tain is right. These are far less serious scars than those Garak has given others. He deserves to be marked. When he leans over the basin, eyes squeezed shut, trying to control himself, his back aches again. He deserves that, too. He deserves worse.

_ “Does it make it easier to cope with this, knowing you deserve it?” _

Heret was already dead when she asked him that. The question came from inside his head, but it still follows him. He hears it on the promenade. He hears it in the darkness. If he didn’t know he deserved what happened to him he might be angrier about it, the way he was angry about exile before he understood that he deserved that, too. 

_ “No-one deserves this.” _ Julian had said that to him once, when Garak was dying. He probably thinks the same thing about this, as though it’s that simple. It isn’t. There are people who deserve pain. He’s met plenty of them. He’s one of them. 

But Julian, for some reason, still wants him. Still wants to sleep with him, even after seeing the scars and the mess inside his head. Still wants to sleep with him even knowing that he hears voices. 

_ “It’s not real, you know. This is just another one of your elaborate little fantasies.”  _

Garak glares at nothing in particular and covers the scars as he does every morning, pretending they’re nothing more than evidence of physical injury. 

When he returns from the bathroom, Julian has set out tea for them both - on coasters, thankfully - and a few round, baked pastries each, with little pots of jam and cream.

“Cream tea,” Julian says, by way of explanation. “Those are scones. You have them with jam and cream.” 

“I see.” 

“It’s a British classic.” 

The knife taps against ceramic when he scrapes jam out of the pot. He doesn’t mind the taste. Cardassian food tends toward sourness and bitterness; animals and plants there have evolved that way to survive the arid desert and put off those who would try to conquer them. And Cardassians conquered them anyway. Sweet things are more human. More Julian. 

“Not bad,” he concedes. 

Julian smiles at him, self-satisfied. “High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it.” 

He’s watched Julian drink so many cups of tea by now. Hundreds. Probably thousands. He ought to have been counting. Julian’s fingertips turn white from the heat. How will they feel digging into his thighs?

Bad thought. 

Disgusting. 

No, surely he’s allowed to think that. Julian wants to touch him, doesn’t he? 

“Did you sleep alright?” Julian asks. 

Garak blinks. “Very well, in fact. And you?” 

“Yes, it was lovely.” Julian doesn’t seem embarrassed to say it. There aren’t many Cardassian men who are so unashamed to enjoy that kind of intimacy. Some of those Garak slept with overcompensated with forceful, violent sex and harsh insults. Some were silent. Some of them even spent the night. But very few of them were unashamed enough to look him in the eye afterwards and say it was _ lovely.  _

_ “It’s not real.”  _

Julian hands him his hypospray and a small tube of cream. 

“Topical painkiller for your hand and shoulder. Should help with the inflammation if you overwork yourself again.” 

“Ah. Thank you.” 

“You should still take it easy with the amount of work you’re doing,” Julian adds. Garak rolls his eyes and nods. 

“Yes, doctor,” he tiredly says. 

“Elim.” 

It’s a jolt to the system every time. No-one calls him that except Julian. His hand rests between Garak’s chest and shoulder, just over the area of tenderness. 

“I’m serious. You need to allow yourself to heal,” he says. 

“So you keep saying.” He’s tired of waiting to be better. Every day he isn’t back to normal makes him think he’s never going to get back to normal at all, that he’s stuck like this. 

“I know it’s frustrating. You just need to be patient with yourself. Emotionally, as well as physically.”

Garak rolls his eyes. “Federation psychobabble. My emotions are under control.” 

“That isn’t the same as healing.” 

It’s also a lie. 

Garak tries to distract him from this by kissing him. And though Julian willingly cooperates, and blends their mouths and hands together, and sighs into him, he breaks off with a knowing frown. 

“I hope you know you’re not going to distract me from giving you medical care just because I like kissing you.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of using our relationship in such a fashion, doctor.”

The word feels new and uncomfortable in his mouth. He’s not sure he should be using it. Julian just raises his brows. 

“Yes, you would.”

He would. 

“You ought to hurry,” Garak says, smoothing out a wrinkle in Julian’s uniform. “You’ll be late.” 

His aches and pains fade to irrelevance when Julian brushes his cheek and kisses him, and raises his hand, palm out. 

“This is how you say goodbye, isn’t it?” 

“Very good, doctor.”

“And this is how you kiss?” 

Julian’s fingers slip between his, his thumb slides gently across his palm. 

“Actually,  _ this  _ is how I kiss.”

His skin is smooth where he’s just shaved, his lips warm and saccharine from his tea. Garak bites his jaw, just a nip, enough for Julian to feel it, but not enough to leave a mark. He doesn’t want people seeing his doctor emerge from his quarters covered in teeth-marks. It’s improper. Not to mention rude on his part. 

But that doesn’t mean he can’t bite his lip. And his neck. And his earlobe. 

Julian smiles. “What was that you said about being late?” 

“Hmm. Tell your staff you’ve been detained by a medical emergency.”

“Elim.” 

“Very well. Go forth, help the needy and the sick.” 

He lets Julian’s hand fall and watches him walk towards the door. The doctor pauses before it opens. 

“I’ll see you for lunch?”

“I’m sure I can make room in my schedule,” Garak says. 

_ “It’s not real.”  _

Garak sighs and waits to respond until the doors have closed behind Julian. 

“I never told you this when you were alive, because you’d have had me killed, or at the very least tortured. But I’ll say it now. Enabran, do shut up.” 

The paranoid part of his mind listens to the voice nonetheless. He has to know for sure. He has to speak to someone else, someone neutral, someone who would know the truth, in as far as he believes in it. Someone he hasn't hallucinated. 

Odo. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof i've been trying to write this chapter for so long + trying to work on [my other fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24517444), but it's done now so i should move faster from this point, thank u for ur patience!


	29. "Patience."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garak talks to Odo. Julian gets some news.

Garak knows Odo’s routine. He’s done the same thing every morning for years, probably since before the Occupation ended. These days he drops into Garak’s shop every day, ostensibly as part of his patrol of all the businesses on the promenade, but in actuality as part of his constant supervision of Garak’s behaviour - which would make him paranoid if he wasn’t so familiar with the way Odo works. 

So when he strolls into Garak’s shop that morning with his usual stiff-backed, restrained aura of disdain, Garak is ready for him. (And he often wonders how it’s possible for someone made of a gelatinous substance to be so consistently stiff.)

“Garak.” 

“Ah. Good morning, Constable.”

Anxiety prickles in his chest. He has to ask Odo, but that doesn’t mean he wants to air the details of his personal life in front of him. 

“Have you noticed anything odd about Dr Bashir recently?” he casually asks. He has a pattern for a new dress he wants to make. He unwinds a bolt of fabric and spreads it across the counter, and starts setting out the pieces. 

“Odd?” Odo repeats. “In what way?” 

“His behaviour. Unusual topics of conversation, perhaps.”

Odo tilts his head, analysing. It’s uncomfortable. Garak much prefers being the one doing the analysing. He avoids the gaze by pinning the pattern pieces to the fabric. 

“He did come to me a few days ago with a request that was somewhat out of the ordinary,” Odo says.

“Oh?” 

“He had some questions about Cardassian culture.” 

“He should have asked a Cardassian if he was curious about our culture.” 

“It seemed to me that he was trying to be considerate by approaching a neutral party.” 

“And what sort of questions did he feel he had to be so discreet about, hm? If you don’t mind my asking.” Garak cuts around the edge of the pattern in a broad fashion, not yet refining the edges. 

Odo shifts uncomfortably. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to speak to Dr Bashir about this yourself?” 

“Oh, I did. We had an illuminating conversation last night," Garak says. That's an understatement, but he doesn't plan on telling Odo or anyone else that he spent last night with Julian cuddled up in his arms. 

“Then why are you interrogating me?” Odo asks. 

“I’m trying to be considerate by approaching a neutral party.” 

“If you must know, he asked a number of questions about your people’s social norms.” 

“Like what?” 

Odo loses patience with him entirely. “If you have a question, just ask it. I haven’t got time for your roundabout games.” 

Garak sighs and leans over his fabric. He hoped it wouldn’t come to this. 

“Have you ever found a solution to an investigation which seems perfect- I mean, too perfect? And though all the clues line up and you can’t find anything wrong, per se, you can’t shake the feeling that there’s a catch. That perhaps you’ve made a mistake, or you’ve been misled. Perhaps by the person you’d least suspect.” 

“And you suspect Dr Bashir of lying about his intentions towards you.” 

“What? No.” He doesn’t, that’s not the problem. He suspects his _mind_ of lying. “What...what do you know about his intentions?” 

Odo folds his arms, and Garak regrets asking immediately. It’s a bad idea to expose something that truly concerns him. 

“He was interested in how Cardassians perceive same-sex relationships.” 

“Ah.” 

That is promising. But it could also mean that Julian was looking for ways to push Garak off without offending him, and everything since then could still have been a hallucination. It’s tenuous, but possible. 

“Come on, Garak,” Odo tiredly says, like he’s coaxing the question out of him. “The question you really want to ask is whether Dr Bashir intends to use that information to pursue some kind of relationship with you.”

This is, unfortunately, true. He sighs. 

“And if it is?” 

“I might point out that his visits to Quark’s have at least halved in number since your return to the station, and several members of staff have noted a marked improvement in his mood in the same time period.”

“Correlation is not causation.”

“I might also point out that in the majority of investigations, if all the clues point in the same direction, you should follow them.” 

Garak has to concede that he has a point, but he’s so used to complicated conspiracies where no-one involved even knows the full truth that his instinct is caution to the point of paranoia. It’s not something he can just switch off when he feels like it. 

“So what you’re saying is…” 

“What I’m saying is that Dr Bashir has been obsessed with you for years, and it shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that he’s developed a romantic fascination with you as well," Odo says, as though this is obvious. 

“You think that’s what it is? A fascination?”

This wouldn’t be the first of Julian’s ill-advised fixations. He gets something stuck in his head, whether it makes sense or not, and drives at it relentlessly until he gets it or someone stops him. What if that’s all this is - an obsession driven by whatever strange grief Julian felt when he thought Garak was dead, and as soon as the novelty wears off he’ll realise it’s a mistake? 

“I don’t probe people about their _feelings_. Shouldn’t an agent of the Obsidian Order be able to figure out a simple matter of human emotion by himself?” Odo asks. 

“Former agent,” Garak corrects. "Thank you, Constable. You’ve been very helpful.” 

Odo huffs. “Don’t expect me to start resolving the petty disputes that will inevitably crop up when solids become involved.” 

Garak holds up his hands in a gesture of innocence. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Cardassians prefer resolving our petty romantic disputes in person.”

“I’m well aware,” Odo says, and turns to go. 

The chilly isolation of his shop doesn’t seem so bad when he has something to look forward to at the end of it - and something he can be fairly certain is physically real. Julian’s quarters, Julian’s bed, Julian’s arms.

_“How pathetic is that?”_

There’s no-one in the shop, so he can talk back. 

“Lots of people like being close to other people. It’s normal.”

_“But you aren’t normal. You have to make sacrifices for your duty. It’s selfish and dangerous to get attached to pretty young things when you’re supposed to be focused on serving your people.”_

“If you wanted me to serve Cardassia more effectively, you shouldn’t have exiled me. Why should I deny myself things when the denial serves no purpose?”

He’s lying to himself now. The denial has always served a purpose. When he gets attached to things, he gets distracted. He gets too passionate about things that don’t matter. He makes mistakes. He fails in his duty. 

_Who am I trying to fool?_ He thinks to himself when lunch rolls around, and Julian waves at him through the door with a nervous smile before he comes in. None of his doubts are going to stop him from accepting what Julian is offering, for however long it is available to him. He’ll take what he can get. That’s all he’s ever been able to do. 

***

Julian never thought he’d be so invested in tiny things like brushing his hand against someone else’s, or catching the edge of a lingering stare. But when Garak smiles at him in the replimat queue and touches his elbow to guide him in front, it makes him feel all sort of warm and squishy and pleased with himself. 

_Is this a date?_ He suddenly thinks. They’ve been having these meetings for so long that he doesn’t think of them as anything other than _lunch with Garak._ They’re their own event. But now he thinks about it, they do seem quite a lot like dates. He doesn’t like other people joining them. He especially doesn’t like when people interrupt. And he can’t stop looking at Garak. 

“You know what I realised?” Julian says, as they settle in at their favourite table. 

(Of course it’s a date. They have a favourite _table.)_

“You’ve given me plenty of novels, but I don’t think you’ve ever recommended any Cardassian poetry. You seemed so enthusiastic about Iloja of Prim the other night, I found myself wondering why you’ve never told me to read him before.”

Garak shrugs. “Perhaps after your scathing treatment of Preloc, I couldn’t bring myself to offer up Iloja’s work to be sacrificed at the altar of Federation morality.”

“Ah, so you were afraid I wouldn’t like it,” Julian smiles, and points at him with his fork. “Or, worse: you were afraid I _would._ And then what would you do? What would it say about your favourite Cardassian literature if a human approved of it?” 

“If another human liked it, I’d say they had taste. But _you,_ my dear doctor? I’m afraid your good opinion would say nothing for the work except that the translator had done a poor job of conveying the true message of it,” Garak casually says.

Has Julian done something wrong? Something that offended him? He runs through the events of the morning in half a second flat before realising that Garak’s insult is not, in fact, insulting. 

This is how Cardassians flirt. 

Garak continues in his usual dictatorial manner, as though everything he’s saying is an obvious fact. 

“A novel is one thing, it has a plot that ties it together independent of the specific words used, but poetry in translation relies so much on the literary prowess of the translator that the passion and skill of the original is almost always lost to it.”

It’s difficult to hold himself back from leaning in and touching his hand where it rests on the table. He’s considerate enough of Garak’s fears not to make any overtly romantic moves in public, but he still finds himself leaning in and nudging his foot under the table. 

“Well, maybe, but there’s something to be gained through a new interpretation that’s just as valuable as the original.” 

“Only a _human_ would think that a _human_ interpretation is just as valuable as the original work,” Garak says, frowning as he pulls his foot back. 

“Says he who claims his _Cardassian_ opinion of human literature is more accurate than a human opinion,” Julian points out. 

“Of course it is. Human literature is clearly inferior to Cardassian.”

“That’s your opinion, not an objective truth,” Julian says, and prods Garak’s foot again. 

“There’s no such thing as the truth,” Garak says, with a smug look on his face, and taps Julian’s ankle in retaliation. 

“That’s a cop-out.” 

“A what?” 

“Oh, an excuse, an evasion. Like everything you say when you know I’m right but you won’t admit it.” 

“My dear doctor,” Garak starts, scandalised. “Where would be the fun in that?” 

There’s something surreal about doing this now. Everything is charged in a way it wasn’t before. Or it was, but he ignored it because he was afraid of what it meant if he acknowledged the way he felt, the way Garak looked at him when he thought Julian couldn’t see. 

There is so much he wants to do with Garak - _and do to him_ \- but he has to remind himself to be patient. Not everything has to happen right away. They have time. (Sort of. They’re in the middle of a war that might kill them both.) There is value in taking things slowly. Maybe six years is a little too slow, but he’s only recently acknowledged that ‘things’ in regards to Garak are happening at all. 

Garak’s glancing around at their surroundings more obviously and nervously than usual. Julian can’t imagine the paranoia he must feel about this. To have such a harmless yet unalterable part of his identity be such a secret, a source of shame and fear, not just for himself but for his family-

No, Julian knows exactly what that’s like. And that’s another reason he held himself back for so long, he realises. He was terrified of the way Garak seemed to look straight through him. Of all the people he knew, Garak was the one he was most concerned about working out that he was an augment. 

Now he isn’t holding back out of fear but patience, he doesn’t have this nervous discomfort inside him anymore. He can wait. 

At least, that’s what he thinks. 

But then he’s called to a meeting in the wardroom, and it comes crashing down. 

***

He can see it on Julian’s face the moment he steps into his quarters that evening. Something’s wrong. Something happened. 

Garak stands and fusses about moving his sewing things from the table so they can have dinner or a drink. He doesn’t want to ask. What he doesn’t know can’t make him panic. It lingers, though. Julian’s hesitance is obvious. He doesn’t sit or even move closer into his quarters. He just stands there, and scuffs his shoe on the floor. 

He only speaks when Garak turns his back to wipe a speck of coffee from the table. 

“The _Defiant_ is leaving tomorrow morning. I can’t tell you where.” 

_Leaving._

Through the wormhole? Up to the border with Cardassia? Setlik, Chin'toka? 

“How long?” Garak asks, trying to stay calm and casual. He replicates himself some tea to give his hands something to do. 

“I’m not sure. A few days.”

“I suppose you’ve calculated the odds of your survival.” 

Julian laughs, humourless. “About forty percent, I’d say.”

“Not so bad,” Garak says. “There have been worse odds.” 

The number doesn’t matter. Julian will be in danger, because he’s _Julian,_ and whether it’s necessary to the mission or not, he will put himself in danger if he thinks it will save someone’s life. 

He could die. 

“ _He will die.”_

That is the conclusion Garak has to draw, that is the fact he has to accept as soon as he can. Pessimism might not be as cheerful a lifestyle as optimism, but it protects him from the shock of loss. He can’t be hurt as badly by a blow he sees coming. 

“Well, I wish you luck,” Garak says. The tea is too hot; it scalds his hands but he holds it tighter. Anything to distract him. “Do you want something to drink?” 

“Garak.” 

Julian looks tired, and slightly guilty. Like he ought to have refused the assignment for Garak’s sake. 

“Tarkalean tea, perhaps?” 

“Elim.” 

He finds the tea gently plucked from his hands. It clinks on the table behind him. Compared to the scalding mug, Julian’s fingers are almost cool when they link with his. 

“I’ll probably be fine, you know.”

“I’m sure you will.” 

Julian gives him a human kiss to match his Cardassian one, his nose nudging against his cheek. 

“It’ll be alright. We always find a way,” Julian says, in that sympathetic, comforting voice that Garak doesn’t know how to deal with. He pushes him off to get some space for himself. 

“You don’t need to _placate_ me, doctor.” 

Julian sighs. “I wasn’t. I was just saying-” 

“Well, don’t.” 

This is why he doesn’t let himself love things. This is why he can’t get attached. When he gets attached to things, they are always ripped away, and the tiny space he allowed himself to give them fills with scar tissue. 

“What do you want me to do, then?” Julian asks. “I can tell Sisko there’s some kind of emergency, and he’ll have to send someone else.” 

“I don’t want you to _do_ anything. You would never send someone else to die in your place, and I wouldn’t expect you to abandon your duty for nothing.” 

“It’s not nothing, though, is it?” Julian says. 

Garak turns away and closes his eyes. Calm. Detached. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t get affected by death anymore. He doesn’t have anything to lose anymore. 

It’s fine. 

“It’s not, is it?” Julian pushes. He’s too close behind Garak, it’s too cramped in here all of a sudden. 

“Garak. Talk to me, for goodness’ sake.” 

“What about?” 

He can almost hear Julian roll his eyes at his prevarication. 

“This.” 

“‘This’ what?” 

Garak can definitely hear him roll his eyes this time. 

“If there was nothing wrong you wouldn’t be acting like this,” Julian says. 

“Like what?” Garak rounds on him. A wave of anger pushes up against him, threatening to boil over. Anger is safer than the rest. It’s what he always feels when there’s something more damning beneath the surface he can’t afford to feel. 

_“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”_ The ever-present drone in his head remarks. 

“Garak? Did you hear anything I just said?” 

Heat rolls off Julian. Garak can see the minute rise and fall of his chest when he breathes, the bobbing movement of his throat when he swallows. Most of it is covered by his uniform. He’s here, now, breathing. He won’t be tomorrow. 

To hell with patience. 

“As a matter of fact, no. But I’m going to assume it was something brilliant, so that it makes sense for me to kiss you.”

He does. Hard.

Julian didn’t expect it, but he bounces back in no time and grabs him, his hand fisting tightly in his hair, pulling him closer so hard it almost hurts. 

To hell with patience. He’ll take what he can get. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter they're going to uh-  
> They'll um-  
> Well, you know.


	30. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, all that yearning and repression comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. don't know how to preface this other than by saying that there is Explicit Sex up ahead. 
> 
> credit for all things Cardassian to tinsnip's  
> [Speculative Cardassian Reproductive Xenobiology](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479)!

His head is full of Julian. Nothing else matters. The war, the mission tomorrow, none of it matters more than the desperation in the way Julian clings to the front of his coat with both hands. He pushes forward, needing more, needing the solid presence of him pressed against his body. 

Julian’s legs hit the bunk at the edge of the living room and he falls back onto it with a grunt. They’re separated for a second and it’s a second too long. He grabs Garak’s hair again and pulls him close. 

From the way Garak sinks his teeth into his neck - what little of it is available to him above his uniform - he’s almost certain of where this is going. And he’s burning hot in here; he keeps the temperature turned up for Garak’s sake and he’s sweating beneath his heavy uniform. 

He wants cool air on his bare skin, he wants to know what Garak will taste like when he bites his neck. 

But he really, really wants to not cock this up. 

Part of him is terrified that Odo was right to be wary of him, and the love he thinks he feels isn’t real, because he isn’t real, and once he fucks Garak everything he feels will disappear. Logically he knows that’s not true, but the fear stays. 

Julian suddenly stops, and moves his hand to Garak’s cheek. Garak goes still, watching him, the uncertainty in his face that blends with desire. 

“Are you sure?” Julian asks. His eyes are dark, wide. 

Garak sets his hand over Julian’s and links their fingers in a deep, tight Cardassian kiss that sends warmth up his wrist, up his arm, up the ridges on his shoulders that are starting to get hot and tight. 

He kisses Julian’s palm. His eyes drift shut for a second, then pale blue flicks across to look straight at him. 

Accepting the invitation. 

_"He's going to die."_ Tain unhelpfully reminds him. 

“Believe me, I’m sure.” 

Julian’s face burns as he unzips his jacket and drops it. He unzips the top of his uniform shirt, too, and exposes his throat to Garak’s eager attention. There’s a sharp sting at the base of his neck where he bites harder and Julian tugs on Garak’s hair in retaliation. 

“You’ll tell me if I hurt you?” Garak suddenly says. It didn’t occur to him until now that human skin is thinner than Cardassian scales, and he can’t bite Julian as hard as he’s accustomed to. 

_"So fragile."_

“I’m tougher than I look,” Julian reminds him. He can feel warm ridges under Garak’s hair that mirror the ones on his temple. Julian slips his hand under the high collar of Garak’s coat and finds that the ridges there are warm too. “Take this off?” 

“Is that a request or a command?” Garak asks, his voice low. 

It’s usually impossible to tell Garak what to do. But the daring look on his face and the way his voice has dropped…

Julian smiles slightly and tugs him closer by the collar. 

“Take off your coat,” he murmurs in Garak’s ear, like it’s a scandalous thing. Garak complies, and when he pushes the beautiful coat from his shoulders, the embroidery shines like moonlight. Julian kisses his neck, where the raised scales of his ridges are turning a deep, stormcloud grey at the centre. They’re warm beneath his lips and Garak makes a pleased sort of hum when Julian bites them. 

“There,” Garak suddenly says. He didn’t mean to, it just came out. It’s been too long since he’s been this close to anyone. 

“Hm?” 

“Third scale down. The _kinat’Hu_.”

Julian has noticed a lot of nerve endings connected to that scale on each side when he’s scanned Garak before, but he didn’t know it had a name. He bites down and Garak hums again. 

Not enough skin. 

Not enough time. 

He’ll be on the Defiant in the morning and he doesn’t know if he’s coming back. He doesn’t know if he’ll see Garak again. Julian pulls his shirt over his head and throws it aside. 

Garak stares. He’s seen glimpses, but never because it was offered. Shameful glances that he pretended were accidental. But now Julian bares himself without hesitation, he opens himself up to Garak as though there’s nothing to fear from him. Smooth brown skin, hot, slightly damp with sweat. 

“I love you,” Julian breathes between kisses. “I love you.” 

Garak doesn’t trust himself to speak. 

He stays silent, just presses closer, kisses him back with a depth of feeling Julian has never seen from the man who always makes such an effort to be composed. Garak isn’t going to take initiative, though. He’s following Julian’s lead in everything, maybe out of politeness, maybe out of fear. 

Julian doesn’t mind taking control. 

He toes off his shoes and shifts back on the bunk so his back rests against the wall. The metal of the bulkhead is a shock of cold against his hot skin, and makes him even more aware of the heat in his trousers. He’d rather not be wearing them, all things considered. 

Julian makes eye contact with him while he undoes his trousers. It makes Garak’s breath catch. Julian is actually going to fuck him. 

_Him._

_Now._

_"By now you must have realised this can't be real."_

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Julian asks as he drops his trousers to the floor, lounging back against the wall, legs askew and prominent erection pushing against his underwear. He’s everted already? No, humans don’t have sheaths. 

“That depends. Where do you want me, doctor?” 

Julian smirks up at him. 

“I want you here, of course.” 

There isn’t a graceful way to get onto the bunk. Especially not for a man in his fifties with chronic pain. But Julian watches him move with that same impatient longing and grabs him again as soon as he’s within reach. 

He’s never been good at patience. 

There’s a pull on Garak’s undershirt. 

“Take this off.” 

He obeys, and is rewarded with Julian’s soft, eager kiss. 

Cool air. 

Garak braces himself as Julian makes contact with bare skin that burns at the contact he’s missed for years. His eyes slide shut as Julian’s hand moves with the care of a sculptor up his waist, tingling, hot.

_"Disgusting."_

Julian presses closer and kisses him again, distracting him from the shame. 

Julian wants him. He wants this. 

Hands run over Garak’s scales, over his scars, over the ridges that follow the line of his shoulders. He hoped their mutual impatience would mean they hurried past any examination of his flaws, but he should have known Julian would linger on broken things he thinks he can heal. 

“I ought to have let you fix this, hm?” Garak says. He has a self-deprecating smile on. 

“You don’t need to be fixed,” Julian quietly says. He kisses an electrical burn just left of the spoon shape in the centre of Garak’s chest, between his collarbones. There’s a faint blue tint in the middle of it that matches the one on his forehead. Curious, he kisses that, too. 

A lovely warm feeling spreads across Garak’s chest from his _chula_. Everything feels so sensitive. He’s not used to it; he’s spent the past months trying desperately to desensitise himself to everything. But Julian’s lips are warm and soft on his, pressing insistently, pulling him in. The eagerness, the passion overwhelms him. To be wanted so blatantly is a shock to the system he’s still reeling from. 

The warm touch slides up his back and he can’t help but relax into it, letting his eyes close. 

Julian’s fingers trail over the thick scars; he can feel them rise and fall over the pitted skin. Garak forgets they‘re there at times, until he stretches his shoulders and feels the scar tissue strain.

The last time someone touched him like this, it was a messy desperate mistake. It hurt. The gul almost killed him, in fact. But at the time, it had been worth it, because it was all he could get. 

_"Pathetic."_

That seems a world away now as he watches the light gleam on Julian’s high cheekbones.

“You are very beautiful,” Garak murmurs. “You do know that, of course. But sometimes it pays to state the obvious.” 

Julian grins into another kiss. 

“And you can be very charming when you’re not trying to be insulting.” Julian’s hand suddenly goes still on his chest. “Elim?” 

“Hm? Yes?” Garak opens his eyes in surprise. Has he done something wrong already? 

“You can touch me, you know.” 

He realises he’s been sitting motionless for far too long. 

“You don’t mind if I…?” Garak lets his hand slide tentatively over Julian’s knee and up his thigh. The skin is warm and smooth, so unlike his own, pliant when he squeezes the muscle there. But it’s so thin. He could bruise so easily. 

_"You could kill him. You should, so you get him all to yourself."_

“There you go, just like that.” Julian’s smile falls slightly. “You have done this before, haven’t you?”

Garak rolls his eyes. “Yes, doctor. Many times. My inexperience is purely with humans.” 

He risks letting his hand stray down Julian’s lovely warm thigh and across his underwear, feeling out the shape beneath before he sees it. Longer and thinner than a Cardassian equivalent. 

“Taking a hands-on approach to learning human biology, are we?” Julian winces. He _needs_ to do something about how painfully hard he is but he doesn’t want to rush Garak. 

“I thought you’d approve.” Garak plays with Julian a little, experimenting with what makes him buck his hips forward inadvertently. He twitches more when Garak rubs the top of it with his thumb than the bottom. Interesting.

“God- I know you like to go on about savouring your food, but-” Julian breathes heavily. Garak clicks his tongue in a show of displeasure, but he’s secretly quite glad Julian isn’t ashamed to rush.

Julian watches him strip off his trousers and underwear with as much poise and dignity as one can while sitting on a bunk, and scrambles unceremoniously out of his own. 

“I love you,” Julian suddenly says. It pounds at the front of his head, rising and falling but always there, the desperate feeling he can’t quell. He doesn’t know how he managed to ignore it for so long. 

Garak tilts his head in that infuriating reptilian way of his, unblinking, smile curving slightly at the edges of his mouth. 

“So you’ve said.” 

Julian rolls his eyes. “Because I _can_ say it now.”

Garak closes his eyes and lets Julian overwhelm him, creeping between his legs and nipping at his neck and jaw ridges, warm skin sliding against his. 

“Julian...”

The soft eyes crinkle and smile at him. 

“I know. You don’t have to say.” 

“Hmm. Fuck me and I’ll think about it.” 

Julian laughs. “Can’t argue with that.” 

His erection pokes against Garak’s stomach, hard and insistent and hot-

And suddenly air rushes past his ears and he’s on his back with Garak above him, kneeling on either side of his hips. He can see the tip of whatever the Cardassian equivalent of a cock is peeking out from the cloaca between his legs. 

“May I ask what you’re planning to do with that?” Julian asks. Garak smirks and bends over him, bracing his hands on either side of Julian’s head. 

“Nothing, for now. It will remain under control.” 

He nips Julian’s neck and chest, and when he dips lower Julian’s cock grazes against his stomach again with electric friction from the way it scrapes across his scales. 

Then he sinks lower still, pressed up against him from chest to groin, and murmurs in his ear, “At least, for as long as I do.” 

Garak disappears from his field of vision, leaving stars in his eyes where he used to be. Julian has often been accused of thinking with his cock, and he used to play into it. He used to exaggerate it to deflect any suspicion from his true self. But right now, he can confidently say that the only thought in his mind is the way Garak is guiding its hypersensitive head through the unassuming folds that protect his Cardassian mysteries and straight into ecstasy. 

Garak goes very still for a moment, only slightly rocking back and forth as he adjusts the angle, then lowers himself, allowing Julian to fill him, consume him, wipe out every thought he had of the hell that awaits him when he’s gone.

The shock of it forces a gasp from Julian’s lungs. His hands fly to Garak’s waist, digging in, trying to steady himself and push himself deeper at the same time. Bands of smooth scales ripple at Julian’s touch. Hard scales, then soft skin and fat, then hard muscles beneath that. His hand slips and there’s waxy scar tissue under his nails instead. 

Garak hisses. 

Julian’s eyes fly open in panic, but Garak impatiently snatches his wrists and sets them back where they were. His back hurts in the place Julian grabbed him, where he never quite healed properly, but it’s not bad. It’s a satisfying sort of pain, the way muscles hurt after exercise. 

There are ridges that run down Garak’s hips. They’re warm, dark grey. Julian experiments with touching them, following the bones and joints beneath the surface, squeezing his thighs. 

The hot tissue around him is almost silken in texture. He finds himself babbling ecstatic nonsense and doesn’t care to stop. 

Garak rocks to get the friction of Julian’s cock against the base of his own. It waits inside its sheath, trembling with arousal and desperate to evert, but he doesn’t let it. There’s a trick to this that he’s learned over the years; forcing his _prUt_ to remain inside while another rams against it until he comes without even everting. 

Perhaps it means something that he feels the need to induce pain in himself even when he’s having the most intensely pleasurable experience of his life. 

He decides to postpone that thought for another time. 

Julian kisses him hungrily when he bends down. 

Frantically. 

Teeth sink into skin and scales alike.

Their hands knot together on the bed. Julian uses his free one to grab at any part of Garak he can reach. His chest, his shoulder, his hair. A kind of growl rumbles up Garak’s throat when Julian tugs on his hair and lets his nails scrape against his scalp. 

Rocking waves of pleasure, forwards and backwards. 

They’re both getting messy. Kisses and bites so quick and frequent that they turn the skin they christen numb, so numerous where Garak leaves them in the crook of his neck that it feels like he’s storing them for later. 

Julian touches Garak like he’s made to be touched, like he’s more than a collection of lies held together in a broken shell. 

It’s agony to stop himself everting now. He’s so close. He keeps creeping up to the edge and dragging himself back. Maybe he’d be able to last longer if this wasn’t so perfect, if he wasn’t so desperate to have Julian _now._ The smell of him, the way his fingers turn white at the knuckle when he tightens his grip, the way he moves. 

“Elim,” Julian’s voice comes through the haze. 

Garak hums. Julian watches him shudder and flick his gaze up to match his. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at him. 

“If I tell you to come, will you?” 

“That depends on whether it’s a request or a command,” Garak says, his voice strained. 

Julian smirks. “Oh, you’ll know.” 

It doesn’t take long. Julian just has to work himself up to that point, too. He can feel the tight insistence of Garak’s movements, the way he’s moving almost like he’s in pain, but the way he kisses him is too fluid for that. 

He tangles his hand in Garak’s hair once again, and pulls him close enough to talk in his ear. 

“Come, now.” 

He does. 

Everything changes. The tension Garak has built up without realising it disappears, the desperation with it. All of it floods out and he barely remains cognisant enough to keep bracing his weight on his arms so he doesn’t just drop straight onto Julian. 

And Julian comes too, somewhere in the haze of calm Garak hasn’t felt since the implant in his head was working, setting off a strange fire inside him that builds up until Julian pulls himself out with a sigh, and then begins to drip out. He lays beside Julian before he collapses on top of him. 

Julian shuts his eyes and focuses on the relief, the rush of endorphins, the sound of Garak shifting on the mattress beside him. 

Quiet. 

Just the pair of them breathing in the hot room, spent. Before them looms the night, and beyond that, there is nothing of any importance beyond the silhouette the other makes against the room. Then he looks at Garak, and Garak looks back at him. The reality of tomorrow snaps back into focus. 

And for the first time in a long, long time, neither of them say a thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it happened!!! hopefully the blending of perspectives worked out, i thought it was smoother than switching back and forth since they do spend the whole of this scene, uh, glued together. 
> 
> let me know what you think!! i dont have much experience writing sex scenes - my first being a [oneshot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24199870) i wrote a few weeks ago.


	31. Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian leaves for his mission.

They didn’t sleep, exactly. For a while, Garak just lay still with Julian tucked up against him, stroking his soft skin, sometimes talking, sometimes kissing, sometimes silent. After a while there was just quiet. Neither of them had anything more to say. Or perhaps it was that they had so much to say that silence was the only option. 

The alarm breaks open the home they’ve made for themselves in a haphazard nest of blankets. Garak sighs and kisses the back of Julian’s neck. Julian turns onto his back and looks over at Garak. 

“Hey.”

Garak rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t even hazard a guess as to how many words are stored in that oversized brain of yours, and yet you so often choose to initiate conversation with  _ hey.”  _

“It’s five in the morning. Sorry I’m not quite awake enough to recite Shakespeare sonnets at you.” 

He grimaces at memories of the sonnets Julian has foisted on him in the past. 

“On second thoughts,  _ hey  _ will suffice.” 

Julian smirks and settles back. Without prompting, he takes up Garak’s hand and plays with it, following the deep lines in his palm with Cardassian attention to detail. He’s soft and caring as a default, not an exception. He’s remarkable.

“There isn’t much time,” Julian says, his voice unusually empty of clear emotion. “We’re leaving at 0700.” 

“That’s plenty of time, if one knows how to manage it properly,” he murmurs. It’s not quite a suggestion, not quite a request, but could easily be if Julian wanted. Right now he’d give Julian anything he asked for.

But Julian says nothing. It’s so unlike him that Garak doesn’t know what to do. He used to think he knew what went on in Julian’s head. Now he isn’t so arrogant. Too much has changed. 

“Are you feeling quite alright, doctor?” Garak asks. He hopes, selfishly, that Julian’s silence is due to dread about his mission, and not because of him. 

“Mm? Oh, sorry. I was thinking.” 

The blankets fall around Julian’s waist when he pushes himself up. Garak watches muscle and bone shift in his back, very visible beneath his skin compared to a Cardassian. There are clear bruises and bitemarks on Julian’s neck and shoulders in particular where Garak might have been too forceful. Julian likely couldn’t leave visible marks on his tougher skin, but there is slight ache in his back and hips and, well, elsewhere. It makes him feel oddly proud. Evidence he was held close instead of shoved away, even  _ loved.  _

He follows the pattern of Julian’s bruises with his fingers, then his lips. 

“You may wish to bathe before you depart,” Garak says. His scent is all over Julian. As much as marking Julian pleases him, there is a risk of other scent-sensitive species picking up on it. Julian just hums and turns to kiss him. 

“Stay out of trouble.” 

“I’ll do my best.” 

Garak gathers the blankets around himself and checks on his plants while Julian busies himself in the bathroom. The voice has been quiet since last night. He doesn’t want to say that it’s gone entirely, because he’s never been capable of that kind of optimism, but it makes him chuckle slightly to think that what he needed to do to get rid of his father’s ghost was disgust him by sleeping with Julian. 

“Did the children survive the night?” Comes Julian’s voice. Garak turns to see he still isn’t dressed, and while the marks around his neck are sadly gone, there are still very prominent bruises and scratches on his chest and shoulders. 

“They did. You appear to have missed a few bruises here.” 

Julian smirks and picks up his trousers and turtleneck from the floor. 

“Oh, I’m keeping these. I quite like them.” 

“I see.” His eyes rake over Julian’s body while he dresses. 

“Stay out of trouble while I’m gone, won’t you?” Julian teases. 

“I promise not to make a mess of your quarters,” Garak carefully says. He will make no such promise not to get into other kinds of trouble. 

_ “Our _ quarters,” Julian corrects him, and steps forward.  _ “Our _ bedroom.” He winds his arms around Garak’s waist, sneaking under the blankets he’s wrapped himself in, and kisses him gently.  _ “Our _ bed.”

Julian tastes of cold mint. It’s strange; Cardassia has no equivalent. Garak seeks it out. 

He’s slowly getting used to being kissed now. What he’s not used to is being invited in, being told that he is not only welcome but desired, that he has a home here. If he believed in luck, he’d say this was good luck, the best he’s ever had, if not for the fact that Julian is leaving and may never return. 

He dresses while Julian replicates breakfast. He needs to be properly put together; there’s a request he has to make of Julian before he leaves. 

“Several weeks ago you relocated some items that belong to me.”

“I did,” Julian cautiously says. “I hope you understand now that it wasn’t safe for you to have access to weapons.”

Garak had dragged himself out of bed to look for them on the first day Julian had left him alone after the worst of his episode, and had discovered every knife and phaser he’d hidden was missing. All of them. It had been more than enough to send him into a furious, panicking tailspin all over again.

“At the time, yes, I imagine that was true. But circumstances have changed, have they not?”

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Julian won’t give them back. He can’t possibly sleep alone here, in someone else’s quarters, without access to the security systems or a weapon to defend himself with should they fail. 

“You’re still hallucinating.” 

Garak scoffs. “Barely.” 

Julian doesn’t look convinced; instead he fiddles with his fork and avoids Garak’s stare. He doesn’t trust Garak with his own equipment. 

“This is a fascinating insight into the human condition. You believe I’m cognisant enough to consent to sex, but not to handle instruments I was trained to use as a child.” 

Julian’s expression twitches with a kind of confused sympathy for a moment and Garak immediately regrets the latter half of that statement. 

“That’s not the issue. I know you’re  _ very  _ capable. And should your symptoms suddenly worsen, you’re capable of killing someone if something triggers a new episode.”

“I assure you that if I have to take extreme measures to defend myself, it will not be from some delusion. I am capable of distinguishing between real danger and a fit of fancy.” 

He knows he doesn’t have any right to be so offended. A few weeks ago he wasn’t capable at all. He very well might have killed someone if they stood between him and a viable exit, the way he killed Amaro on Empok Nor without a second’s thought. On neither occasion had he been physically impaired; that’s never been the issue. It’s his mind that always seems to fall apart. 

Julian bites his lip. He’s conflicted. “You’re not in any danger here.” 

Garak rolls his eyes. “If someone wanted to kill me, they could quite easily get in here if they so wished.” 

_ “If  _ someone wanted to. That doesn’t mean they will, or even that it’s likely.”

“May I ask how many times you’ve woken with a knife to your throat or a phaser in your face?” Garak snaps. “Because I assure you, that is not something one forgets, and I refuse to be left defenceless simply because  _ you  _ won’t trust me.” 

“I do trust you,” Julian says, unexpectedly. “But you can’t tell me that if you were in a worse state, you wouldn’t lie and take advantage of my trust in you to get your hands on a phaser anyway. I have to think about the safety of everyone on the station, including you.”

He has a point, which doesn’t bode well. Garak purses his lips and swirls his tea around in its mug. 

“So?” he says, pretending as though this isn’t as important to him as it is. 

“So you have to trust me, too. I understand your need for privacy, but you have to understand that I can’t work on the assumption that everything’s going to be fine just because you say it is without giving me any information at all.” 

A trade-off between Garak’s fear of honesty and his fear of being defenceless. They’re the same instinct, when it comes down to it. He taps his finger on the edge of his mug. The voice is still quiet. It’s just him and Julian, with no answer as to what he should do. His default is to delay, deflect and collect more information. 

“What do you want from me?” Garak asks. 

“Firstly, I need your word that you’ll keep taking the medication when I’m away.” 

Even though he fully intended to do so, some irrational part of Garak recoils at being ordered to do something, his freedom being restricted again. 

“Of course,” he says, regardless. “What else?” 

“Secondly, I need you to be honest with me about your condition,” Julian says, perhaps unaware of how viscerally difficult that is. 

“I haven’t experienced anything out of the realm of reality since last night. In fact, it’s entirely possible that I’m cured. I must commend your medical expertise in this matter, doctor.” 

Julian just gives him a look, and Garak sighs. He glances around to check whether anything has crept into the room that ought not be there. 

“My  _ condition  _ is under control.”

“How? How do you identify a hallucination when you see one?” Julian cuts in, all hard medical professionalism, and Garak tries not to snap at him. 

“Common sense,” he grinds out. “My regular visitors are dead, the things they do are illogical, and it tends to be obvious that no-one else can see them. In the rare circumstance that I truly cannot tell the difference, I leave and check security footage after the fact.” 

“Shall I ask Odo if you have permission for that?” 

“That would be a waste of the good constable’s time.” 

Julian raises a brow at him. “I’m sure.” 

Garak forces a tense smile. He can’t tell whether Julian will acquiese. If he doesn’t, Garak could acquire more weapons, but if he stores them here Julian could find them later, especially if they’re going to be sharing a bed. 

If Julian comes back. 

“You’ve been fine without them until now,” Julian says. “Unless you’ve smuggled in some weapons without my knowledge.” 

“Lately, I’ve been sharing quarters with another soldier,” Garak says. Julian looks away again, sighing. For a brief moment he looks years older. 

“I’m not a soldier. At least, I wasn’t supposed to be.” 

“Duty often requires more of us than we can give.” It’s such a common saying on Cardassia that he fees odd actually saying it out loud after all this time, to a human who has only read it in books. 

Julian just looks at him. “You won’t be able to sleep without a weapon, will you?” 

Garak sighs. “It would be significantly easier to relax if I had access to some method of self-defence.” 

“Anxiety and lack of sleep are likely to exacerbate symptoms of psychosis,” Julian mumbles to himself. He’s diagnosing Garak more than talking to him. It’s a habit he slips into now and then. “Okay. Promise me one more thing: if I give the phaser back, you’ll set it on stun.” 

That’s a concession he isn’t keen to make, but Garak inclines his head anyway. Julian said nothing about the level of harm he was permitted to cause with a knife. 

“Of course. I would hate to clutter up your quarters with corpses.” 

“Our quarters,” Julian corrects him again. Garak doesn’t know how to respond to that other than stare, and wait. 

Julian sips his tea, his fingers tapping on the rim of the cup. 

The station hums around them. Garak strains his hearing for the hallmarks of his hallucinations. Footsteps, whispers, rustling of invisible fabric. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary. He can’t trust anything, not completely, but there are no ghosts in this room. 

“Okay,” Julian eventually says. “The box is in the back of the storeroom in the infirmary.” 

Garak takes a second to speak. It’s quiet. His breath is tight in his chest. Julian trusts him. Actually trusts him. He doesn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. 

“You didn’t think I’d look there?” he eventually says. 

“It was a gamble, but you hate the infirmary, you hate small spaces, and it would be hard to sneak in there without security or one of the nurses seeing you. Plus the cameras, of course.”

Julian shouldn’t know those things about him. It’s dangerous, all those weaknesses out on show. 

“Well-played, doctor,” Garak faintly says. “I’m...grateful, but surprised you didn’t destroy them entirely.” 

“I thought you might be attached to them.”

“You think assassins are sentimental about their weapons?”

“No more sentimental than they are about plants, or clothes, or books,” Julian says, with a pointed look. “And there was a knife in there that looked quite old.”

Garak feels a wave of affection for Julian, who does everything with such  _ care  _ and  _ gentleness  _ that he doesn’t deserve. He  _ is  _ sentimental about that dagger, stupidly, only because he’s held onto it for years. It’s one of the few things he was able to smuggle into exile, hidden away in his boot. Only Julian would think to preserve a blunt old knife just because Garak might be attached to it. 

“Thank you, Julian.”

Julian smiles slightly. “Don’t make me regret it, hm?” 

“I shall try.” 

The rest of breakfast is quiet. Garak doesn’t have anything to say that can be said like this. Instead, he delays. He interrupts the course of Julian’s fork to his mouth by asking questions that require an immediate answer. Trivial things about human culture. He’s always been fascinated by their wars. 

But too soon, Julian is wiping his mouth and getting up from the table, taking his plate to the replicator and fixing his hair in the mirror. 

“I’ve left a week’s worth of ilochlorodin in the bathroom. If you turn out to need more than that…” 

_ If it turns out that you’ll be gone longer than a week,  _ Garak silently fills in. 

“There’s a prescription on the system, Jabara will fill it for you. You shouldn’t have any problems.” 

“And if I do?” 

“There are other doctors, who I will personally ensure will treat you properly.” 

The thought of being treated by another Starfleet doctor, one who isn’t Julian, rankles. He hates being Julian’s patient enough as it is. To have some Starfleet stranger discuss the nature of his humiliating psychological breakdown, to have them not only see but  _ touch  _ him in his weakest places and inject him with unknown substances to ‘treat’ him-

Or worse, a Bajoran doctor, who would at best tolerate his presence here and at worst despise it-

No. He doesn’t like that idea very much at all. 

“Elim.” He looks up at Julian. “Let’s not leave things awkwardly?”

“We’re not leaving anything,” Garak says. “You’ll be back in no time.” 

Optimism is not in his nature. Lying, however, is. And lying to himself is an old, old habit. 

“Still.”

“Off you go, doctor. Be a hero.” He waves his hand but Julian doesn’t go, grounding him with that ever-present warmth, touching his shoulder. “Do try to come back in one piece, won’t you?” 

“Only if  _ you  _ try to stay out of trouble,” Julian says. 

“I’ll do my best,” Garak lies. 

“Why don’t I believe you?” 

“Perhaps I’ve taught you too well.” 

“Ha. You wish.” 

Julian doesn’t let go of him. His hand is warmer than usual from his cup of tea when he links it with Garak’s. He kisses Julian back, in the human way, and his lips taste of the cream and jam from his scones. He presses close, his hands on Garak’s face, in his hair, touching his chest. He kisses Garak messily, desperately. Then he slows, and rests his forehead against Garak’s. 

“I love you,” Julian murmurs. “Remember that, please.” 

Garak almost laughs. “As if I could forget.” 

He tracks the tiny pores and wrinkles in Julian’s skin, the way his irises brighten in the light, the way his lashes shift when he smiles. If only he could hold onto it all in his head, he wouldn’t have to let Julian go, not entirely.

And Julian-

Julian keeps saying it. The terrible, horrible thing Garak can’t say, can’t even think to himself. There isn’t enough time to find a way to say it without having to say it. There isn’t a way to say it that won’t feel like painting a target over his heart and handing the universe a phaser. 

So he does it anyway. 

“I love you.” He blurts it out before he can stop himself, and Julian goes quiet. “Now get out.”

Julian smiles, soft and beautiful. “Garak…” 

“Yes, yes. Now go, or you’ll be late.” 

“If you insist.” Julian drops another kiss on his cheek and shoulders his bag. “I’ll be back before you know it.” 

“I’m sure you will.” Garak forces a smile. So does Julian. 

Going. 

His doctor takes a step back, and another, and turns. 

The door opens. 

Going, going. 

The door shuts. 

_ Gone.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back after my uni work got submitted!!!! ill probably update this fic every couple of weeks as i get the chapters done, i do know the trajectory i want it to take, it's just writing it! sorry for the long hiatus, and thank you for reading!   
> <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Difference of Opinion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954893) by [zaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaan/pseuds/zaan)




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